


somewhere, someone must know the ending

by maleficently



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-25
Updated: 2012-12-01
Packaged: 2017-11-15 01:12:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 133,256
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/521505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maleficently/pseuds/maleficently
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m here because... I think my kid is having some kind of delusional breakdown because he can’t cope with the fact that ... Mayor Mills and I split up.”</p><p>Dr. Hopper pushes his glasses up his nose in a measured movement.  “What makes you think that?”</p><p>“Well, among other things, he thinks his mother is about to cut Mary Margaret Blanchard’s heart out of her chest, before pulverizing it and sending her into a coma that only her <em>true love</em> can rescue her from.”</p><p>[AU; here,  'fairy tale land' is merely a product of Henry's imagination during a difficult time.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In her defense, she’s _really_ drunk.  
  
The alcohol is what makes the chainsaw seem like a good idea, even with Mary Margaret trying to talk sense into her--”whatever it is you’re thinking of doing, a chainsaw is _never_ the answer, Emma”--and with the thing being so heavy that she almost falls down the stairs and kills herself in trying to carry it down to her car.  
  
And honestly, if a chainsaw is never the answer, why the hell does Mary Margaret _own_ one?  
  
Swaying on her feet for a moment and then actually pointing the chainsaw at Mary Margaret, like an accusing finger, she slurs, “You’re not my mother, don’t tell me how to deal with this”, and Mary Margaret just clutches the front of her burnt orange cardigan and stares at her with something that’s a little too much like pity.  
  
The alcohol can’t make her unsee it, but turning away and leaving can.    
  
...  
  
It’s the middle of the night, but that hardly matters; when she yanks on the chain and the engine starts to thrum, it only takes a few seconds for Regina’s bedroom lights to flick on.  Emma smiles victoriously when she sees just how badly she’s scared the shit out of her--Regina didn’t even bother to put on a robe, and the little black shift she’s wearing isn’t really covering anything it ought to be--and then very slowly and deliberately raises the saw to a first, gloriously blooming branch of the apple tree.  
  
The bedroom window is shoved open, creaking against the frame as it rises just enough for Regina to lean out.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?” Regina calls out, but rather than imperious, it just sounds panicked.  
  
“Getting even,” Emma mumbles, but even as the chainsaw sinks into the tree and the grinding of wood settles _something_ inside of her, she knows that there’s no way for them to ever get even.  
  
Regina, it seems, doesn’t have a heart for her to break in kind.  
  
…  
  
There’s something interesting about being incarcerated by the guy who’s been busy nailing your wife for the last however long.  It’s interesting in the sense that Emma’s pretty sure that he’s meant to be asking her probing questions about the arboreal assault she just committed, but he’s just sitting in his office, balefully staring at her from across the room.    
  
He must be really worried about what she wants to do to him if he still looks nervous and wide-eyed even when shielded by a window, several desks, and the bars she’s currently got her hands wrapped around.  
  
Her head is pounding, and her arms are surprisingly sore.  
  
Mary Margaret and Regina make their way into the Sheriff’s Department side by side, until Regina pushes ahead--dressed to the nines, even at seven a.m.--and Mary Margaret just rolls her eyes and follows her, looking sleepy and cold.  
  
The slight hesitation in Regina’s step before she looks away from the cell and heads over Graham’s office is enough to bring a hint of a smile to Emma’s lips, but it fades when Mary Margaret stands in front of her and just tilts her head.  
  
Emma sighs, pushes away from the bars and sits down on the bed.  “I know, okay?”  
  
“What do you think Henry--” Mary Margaret says, anyway.    
  
Emma feels acutely like she’s itching out of her own skin, and for the first time ever understands why Regina has _always_ hated her best friend.  “He doesn’t know.”  
  
“Emma, you took a _chainsaw_ \--”  
  
“He _doesn’t_ know,” she repeats, more forcefully this time, and glances at Regina’s back.  Regina is leaning over Graham’s desk and hissing something at him, serpent-like and threatening, and Emma closes her eyes and rubs at her face for a few seconds.  The alcohol is gone, now.  All that’s left is the embarrassment and shame.  “She wouldn’t tell him.  It would require explaining what the hell possessed me to try and cut down her favorite tree, and the kid knows me well enough to know that it had to be something serious and something _she_ did.”  
  
Mary Margaret is silent for a few seconds, gnawing carefully on her lip, and then rummages around her purse.  “Well, I brought enough money to bail you out...”  
  
“You don’t have to pay for me being an idiot,” Emma says, weary as hell.  All she wants to do is go to sleep and wake up a month ago, when everything seemed the way it always did: difficult, but fine.  
  
Mary Margaret looks vaguely proud of herself.  “Oh, I’m not.  I just found the sock you keep your emergency cash in.”  
  
It’s enough to make her laugh a little, and Mary Margaret also laughs.  Really, it all seems funny for just a few moments, until Regina looks over her shoulder and looks almost wounded by the fact that they’re finding some _joy_ in this situation.  
  
The laughter dies in Emma’s lungs, and she drops onto her back and stares at the ceiling, counting the seconds until someone lets her out and she can start running.  
  
…  
  
David is waiting for them outside.  With _Henry_.  The kid looks hopped up on all kinds of sugar, which makes sense, because David is a total pushover when it comes to everything except divorcing a wife he doesn’t love.    
  
Mary Margaret stares at the ground beneath her feet instead of looking at him and Emma wishes that she could conjure up some high-grade amnesia; her own life is enough of a mess, and she _can’t_ deal with her best friend’s ongoing boy drama right now.  
  
“Are you okay?” Henry asks, urgent and rabbit-like, his eyes darting back and forth between the departmental logo and Emma’s exhausted face.  “Did she put you in jail?”  
  
“What?” Emma asks, and then shakes her head, when it becomes clear what he means.  “No, I--uh--”  
  
What, exactly, can you tell your son about _why_ you landed in prison that doesn’t make you sound like a total disaster?  
  
“Your mother went to a party and had a few drinks” Graham says, somewhere behind her.  “We kept her here to make sure that she couldn’t get into an accident last night.”  
  
Emma feels her shoulders tense; she will not, _will not_ , show gratitude towards the asshole that--  
  
Except, it’s not him she’s angry at.  Not at all.    
  
Her shoulders slump again.  
  
Henry looks appropriately disappointed in her, and she just sort of shrugs.  “Sometimes adults drink too much, kid.  It happens.”  
  
When he opens his mouth, she knows he’s going to point out that it never _used to_ happen to her, back when she still lived with them--now a whopping thirteen days ago--and that his _other_ mom says drinking to excess is something that only the weak of mind do, like that janitor that Ruby won't serve anymore, and other people that would never set foot in his house.  
  
She’s basically Leroy the alcoholic janitor now, in his mind.  
  
If that’s not enough for her to just give up and go lie down in the middle of the road...  
  
“Henry, we’re going home,” Regina says, her emotionless voice preceded by a whiff of apple shampoo that makes Emma feel old and worn.  
  
“But I haven’t seen Emma--”  
  
“ _Henry_ ,” Regina snaps.  Henry stares at Emma imploringly but before she can do anything, really, Regina brushes by her and hisses, “Sleep it off, Miss Swan; you can see him tomorrow.”  
  
She’s not sure what hurts more; the _Miss Swan,_ or the fact that she’s stuck watching her family walk away from her--two dark-haired shapes of varying heights in nearly identical coats, walking to an equally dark car.  
  
Graham slinks back inside after a surprisingly efficient glare from David, and then it’s just her and two other desperate people who don’t know how the fuck to be happy.  
  
“Anyone up for grabbing another drink?” she asks, shoving her hands in her pocket.  
  
David laughs, and then sobers when Mary Margaret gives him this incredibly pointed look; the kind that silences husbands of twenty years, not crushes that haven't even been acted on.  
  
Just like that, Emma sort of _gets it,_ this painful thing between them; inevitable no matter how much they both try to ignore it.  It puts her one step ahead of Mary Margaret, who never did manage to wrap her head around Regina.  
  
…  
  
A hot mug of tea and some home-made scones later, and Emma feels like she can brave a few questions she’s been drowning with whiskey so far.  
  
“How is he?” she asks.  Something inside of her shrivels at the idea that she’s now stuck begging for information from his _teacher_ , or his _other mother_.  Before, she understood Henry better than anyone, but even this little sliver of distance between them has been enough to make her start doubting.  
  
“In denial,” Mary Margaret says, slathering butter and jam onto her scone and then putting it down with a soft sigh.  “He thinks you’ll work it out.  That Regina probably was too strict or demanding about something unimportant, and you just need some time to calm down.  After all, it’s true love and true love always wins.”  
  
Emma groans and grinds her knuckles against her jeans, but it doesn’t chafe enough for her to really feel it.  “God.  Really?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods, a wry smile dancing around her lips.  "The true love thing is... probably at least a little my fault.”  
  
Emma raises her eyebrows.  
  
“I gave him this book--I found it in the pawn shop, it’s an illustrated book about fairy tales, and... well, you know how they are.”  Mary Margaret sinks further back onto the couch, scone forgotten, her eyes trained on something invisible in the distance.  “The prince never stops fighting for the princess; in fact, he never even notices other women, let alone marries them.  True love is meant to be, and so they work it out.  Happily ever after.”  
  
“Sounds like a load of crap,” Emma says, stabbing her knife through another scone.  It sort of crumbles under her hand, and that’s _good_.  That’s what love is actually like; something that stabs you until you break.  
  
“Yeah,” Mary Margaret sighs.  “But--a nice load of crap all the same.”  
  
…  
  
Having to knock on the door to her own _house_ \--which it was, even if Regina paid for it and furnished it and really, everything in the place that was hers fit in a single suitcase that she dragged out to the Bug and drove over to Mary Margaret’s two weeks ago--is probably the most humiliating thing yet, but for Henry, it’s a burden she’s willing to shoulder.  
  
Regina opens up, wearing a starkly white apron over her black suit, and then eyes her up and down.  
  
“I’m sober; do you want to check my breath?” Emma bites out, refusing to squirm under the scrutiny.  It used to be devoted, the way Regina’s eyes tracked her every movement, but right now it’s just terrifying.    
  
Regina dusts her hands on her apron and then pulls the door open further.  “He’s upstairs.”  
  
Emma can’t get to the kid’s room fast enough.  Everything else in the house feels like it’s trying to strip her bare, just so Regina can see how small she really is.  
  
…  
  
The fairy tale book is _huge_.  It’s basically the size of Henry’s torso, and she has no idea how he’s even holding it up to read it.  
  
Big or not, though, the book is forgotten as soon as she raps her knuckles against the door, though; tossed to the side and then the kid is wrapping himself around her legs and her waist the best he can.  
  
“You came,” he says, sounding relieved by it.  
  
She doesn’t know what she did to make him think that she _wouldn’t_ come.  It’s probably just the job; most of his life is still marked by her being in and out of Storybrooke, traveling all over the east coast to track down criminals.  Regina’s never really commented on what her flitting in and out of their lives did to the two of them; she went from silently accepting it straight to asking Emma to stop doing it, a few months ago.  
  
A ball of nausea tangles in her gut when she realizes that it might’ve just been a desperate measure on Regina's part, her wife grappling for a reason to stop letting Graham fill up the regularly empty indentation on the left side of the bed.  A reason to stop her from _fucking_ a guy she’d wanted Emma to _work_ with, a guy that Emma feels like she could've been _friends_ with.  
  
Declining that gig, as it turns out, is the one thing she’s done right lately.  
  
“Of course I did, kid,” she says, softly.  She’s almost forgotten the texture of his hair, brushing her fingers through it now; and feels another empty stab of hurt at the knowledge that soon, now, she won’t remember how any part of Regina feels under her fingertips.  
  
Missing that, even pre-emptively, makes her angry all over again, and she counts to five and then gently pushes Henry away from her.  “Want to go out to the castle?”  
  
“Okay,” Henry says, immediately--but doesn’t follow her before doubling back and getting his book.  
  
Stories sound better than reality right now, so Emma can’t think of a single reason to stop him.  
  
…  
  
The wind whips around them and she takes a second to fix Henry’s collar, to pull his scarf around his neck more tightly.  
  
He always looks a little amused by her when she tries to mother him.  It’s not a role that sits comfortably with her, and she’s happier with the kid just thinking of her as _Emma_ or _his friend_ or whatever else he needs.  A fixture, but _not_ like Regina, not in that way.  
  
Henry gazes off into the distance as Emma gingerly sits down on a stretch of rotting wood next to him, and then digs the book out of his backpack.  
  
“I think I know what went wrong,” he then tells her.  
  
She almost laughs at him, but he looks so serious and heartbroken that she sort of smothers the laughter into a sigh and then wraps an arm around his back.  “Kid...”  
  
“No, I mean, you couldn’t help leaving.  You _had_ to,” he stresses.  
  
She opens her mouth to protest, even though he’s basically right, but before she can think of anything to say, he’s flipping through the book and then stops on a picture of a woman wearing an absolutely ridiculous black and blood-red dress, holding an apple in an outstretched hand, smirking at the reader.  Her eyes are so dark that they look black, in the drawing, and her hair is done up extravagantly.  
  
Emma stares at the picture for a few seconds, and then looks at Henry.  “Uh--”  
  
“Don’t you see it?” Henry asks.  
  
Her eyebrows lift.  “See _what_ , Henry?”  
  
The disappointment on his face is absolute, but he tries harder to get her to see whatever it is he’s seeing.  Henry doesn’t know how to quit.  He gets that from her, Emma thinks, but then she remembers Regina’s campaign to get Mr. Gold kicked off the school board and has to concede that, no, their kid really does take after Regina in all ways.  
  
“She’s the evil queen,” Henry says, in a forceful whisper.  Like someone can overhear them--which is doubtful--and like this is a huge, powerful secret.  
  
“Well, yeah, I’m getting that from the … hair horns and... wait, is this Snow White?” Emma asks, leaning forward again.  
  
“No, it’s the evil queen,” Henry repeats, rolling his eyes and flipping forward a few pages.  “ _That’s_ Snow White.”  
  
A familiar drawing of a girl in a coffin, blood-red lips and an apple in her hand, makes Emma nod uncertainly.  
  
Henry goes back to the earlier drawing and jabs his finger at the evil queen’s face.  “Do you really not see it?” he asks, now almost pleading.  
  
Emma’s hair whips into her face and she brushes it aside, huddling closer to Henry and then pressing an impromptu kiss to his head.  “Henry--it’s just a story, okay?  I don’t know what--”  
  
“That’s _Mom_ ,” Henry says.  
  
Emma feels her jaw hang, aimlessly, and then leans back and looks at Henry.  Still dead serious.  She can’t laugh at him--experience has taught her the hard way that he’s definitely inherited Regina’s inability to cope with people making fun of her--but she also can’t just...  
  
“Kid, your mom isn’t--I know we’re having some issues, but she’s not some evil queen in a fairy tale, okay?  It’s _just a story_ ,” she says, deliberately.  
  
Henry’s eyes dim a little.  “You don’t get it.”  
  
She licks her lips, and wonders what the hell she can say.  “Whatever problems your mom and I are having, they’re not … we didn’t split up because she’s _evil_ \--”  
  
“ _Of course she’s evil,_ ” Henry roars at her, his hands shaking around the edges of the book.  “She made you _leave_.  She always makes you leave, and now you’re not coming back and it’s like she doesn’t have a heart, okay--see?”  
  
He furiously flips through pages of the book until he lands on one where the evil queen is staring a heart in a box, and Emma forces herself not to react, but it’s a really realistic depiction of, well, what she thinks a heart looks like.  It looks like it might pound off the page.  
  
“She takes people’s hearts, because she doesn’t have her own, and then she breaks them,” Henry says.  There’s a tremor in his voice that suggests that he’s close to tears, and abruptly, Emma is as well.  
  
Ridiculous as all of this is, Henry’s honed in on the one thing that she hasn’t been able to stop thinking herself, ever since she found her wife and the sheriff in bed together.  
  
It’s that someone who has a heart could have _never_ done this to her.  
  
It starts to rain, nothing more than a light drizzle, but it’s enough to make her want to get back to the car--but as she gets up, Henry wraps his hand around her wrist as much as he can and squeezes down almost painfully tight.  
  
“She’s evil.  You _had_ to go.  But I also think you can save her, Emma.  If anyone can, it’s got to be you.”  
  
He looks at her imploringly, and as thunder claps overhead, she honestly can’t think of anything more to say than, “Okay, well.  I can’t save her if I die of pneumonia, now can I?”  
  
Henry’s entire face relaxes, like he’s fought and won the most difficult battle of his life; but on the drive back to Storybrooke, with him prattling on about how Mary Margaret has to be Snow White because of how much his mom _hates_ her, all Emma can think of is whether or not she needs Regina’s permission to get Henry put in therapy, post-haste.  
  
…  
  
“Have you _seen_ some of the drawings in that book?”  
  
Mary Margaret is almost guiltily silent and then says, “I might have just... read the happy endings.  Maybe.”  
  
“Oh, great.  That’s just great,” Emma grouses, before hanging up and knocking forcefully on Dr. Hopper’s office door.  
  
He looks really surprised to see her--but then he always looks really surprised--and then carefully says, “Oh.  Mrs. Mills.  Are you here... to sign up for couples therapy?  Because relationship counseling isn’t--”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Emma bites out, before running a hand through her hair and leaning heavily against the wall next to his office.  “I’m here because... I think my kid is having some kind of delusional breakdown because he can’t cope with the fact that ... Mayor Mills and I split up.”  
  
Dr. Hopper pushes his glasses up his nose in a measured movement.  “What makes you think that?”  
  
“Well, among other things, he thinks his mother is about to cut Mary Margaret Blanchard’s heart out of her chest, before pulverizing it and sending her into a coma that only her _true love_ can rescue her from.”  
  
Dr. Hopper blinks at her a few times, and then rubs at his cheek.  “I think I have a free slot later this afternoon.  Four o’clock?”  
  
“Thanks.  Appreciated,” Emma grits out, before shoving her hands in her pockets and walking over to city hall.  
  
…  
  
“Henry is _fine_ ,” Regina says, her tone brooking no argument.  
  
There is something very regal about the way she’s gently spinning back and forth in her chair, except Emma knows that she’s probably kicked off her heels and was probably watching an episode of _Passions_ on her lunch break.  
  
“Look, do you really think I care if he thinks you’re some real life Disney villain?”  Emma throws her hands up and wanders over towards the window that looks out over the elementary school.  It’s raining too hard for anyone to be playing outside, but somewhere in there, Henry is probably daydreaming about more horrific things his mother is capable of doing.  “I personally think you _are_ an evil bitch, but I’m a rational adult--”  
  
“Debatable at best, Miss Swan,” Regina drawls.  
  
It’s the kind of statement in the kind of voice that would’ve had her hands down Regina’s immaculately pressed pants a few weeks ago, and _that_ enrages her more than anything else about the petty, snide little back and forth they’re about to engage in.  
  
Before Emma can really think about what she’s doing, a decanter full of some really, really expensive scotch is sailing across the room and shattering up against the creepy-as-hell wallpaper Regina has plastered all over her office.  The trees drip amber, for just a few moments, and somehow end up looking more real for it.  
  
“You’re right,” Regina says, coolly, eyeing the mess on her floor.  “The picture of maturity.”  
  
“Can you just _stop_?”  
  
She doesn’t mean to beg, but knows she has when Regina’s expression tightens for a moment and then relaxes again.  
  
“Stop what?  Calling you _Miss Swan,_ or letting you call a child with an active imagination... crazy?”  
  
“Regina,” Emma sighs.    
  
They’re silent for a few seconds, during which she’s studiously not looking at the broken decanter; had they still been living together, Regina would’ve made her pay for that one in spades, but short of arresting her again, there’s not much to be done now.    
  
Her hands curl into fists unwillingly, at the look of passive condescension that Regina wears like a weapon even in her milder moments.  “We were together for six years, okay, and no matter what else is going on now, we’ve _always_ trusted each other when it comes to our son, so can you please just--”  
  
“ _My_ son, Miss Swan,” Regina cuts her off, “does not need therapy.”  
  
It feels like a slap in the face; one that also drives home that something really _is_ wrong with Henry.  The Regina Mills that Emma knows and... well.  That woman really doesn't need fucking _magic_ to wrap her fingers around people’s hearts and crush them to dust.  
  
She swallows thickly, before shaking her head.  “Fine.   _Fine_.  Your son.  You deal with him blaming you for me being gone, then.  You deal with him thinking you’re--some evil fairy tale creature, out to hurt everyone he cares about.  You can just--”  
  
The sigh that escapes from Regina is almost inaudible, but the words that follow are clear.  
  
“If you honestly think that Henry blaming _me_ for _your_ inability to stay with us is something new, dear, I’d say it’s you that needs to be told not to believe in fairy tales.”  
  
Emma bites down on her cheek hard enough to feel the sharp tang of blood fill her mouth, but it’s good, somehow, that something _else_ hurts this much.  
  
“This isn’t about you and me.  This is about him, and he needs to _talk_ to someone about this _,_ ” she tries, one last time.  “If you can’t see past me to understand that, you’re not the mother I always thought you were.”  
  
Regina’s mouth trembles for a second, but then she hits the button on the intercom and says, “Send in my next appointment please.  Miss Swan is done here.”  
  
“Yeah, you know what?  I really am,” Emma manages, but she knows that Regina can tell how close she is to tears, and no amount of stalking out of the mayor’s office with her head held high can make up for it.


	2. Chapter 2

When she dreams, it’s that day again.  
  
She sees Regina yanking the sheet off the bed and stumbling out into the hallway after her, mascara everywhere, her hands clawing for purchase on Emma’s coat.  Begging for her to stop, to listen, that there is an explanation _,_ that it’s not what it looks like, that it’ll never happen again.  
  
That she’s so, so sorry.  
  
Regina ends up on her knees at the top of the staircase as Emma’s legs carry her down it, one mindless, automated step at a time.  At the bottom, she glances at the clock in the dining room and reaches for her car keys.  
  
It’s almost as if someone else says the words that come out of her mouth, but they’re there, meaningless and void.  
  
“School’s out.  I’m going to get Henry.”  
  
Every time she wakes up, she wishes she could’ve thought of something to add to that; maybe a snide, _maybe you can get your fuck buddy out of our bedroom before we get home, hm?_ , but in the moment, there wasn’t anything she wanted to do except get _out_.  
  
…  
  
The broken coffee maker stares back at her accusingly when she gets downstairs, scratching at her stomach and wondering if there’s any make-up in the house that can cover up how fucking shitty she feels and how restless her rest has been.  Not that concealer would fool Mary Margaret, but it might fool Henry, if she gets to see him today.  
  
Mary Margaret is buttering some toast at the breakfast bar, but stops and pours her some orange juice without asking.  Emma takes it, presses the cold glass against her forehead, and then motions towards the coffee maker.  “I’ll give fixing it another go.”  
  
Mary Margaret cringes.  “Maybe... don’t.”  
  
“What, you think I can’t?” Emma asks, immediately ruffled.  
  
Part of her knows she’s gunning for a fight with just about _anyone_ but Regina, simply because that way she stands a chance in hell of winning, but when Mary Margaret presses her lips together and pointedly eyes the hole in the wall behind the coffee maker, it’s pretty much game over.  
  
She grunts and sits down across from Mary Margaret, taking a sip of the juice and then looking at the hole as well.  “Whatever.  Wrenches aren’t supposed to just... fly out of your hand like that.  I don’t know where you bought that thing, but it’s a hazard.”  
  
Mary Margaret makes a small noise that might be agreement and then pushes a plate of toast towards her.  “Plans for today?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Emma says, running her finger through the condensation on the side of the juice glass.  “Thought I might go and beat the crap out of the sheriff, do another night in the two-cell slammer.”  
  
The exasperation on Mary Margaret’s face is amusing, but her eyes stay questioning.    
  
Emma reaches for the toast with a sigh.  “I guess I’ll continue figuring out what I want to do with my life, now that I’m not a bounty hunter anymore.”  
  
 _Or a wife_ , her mind whispers.  
  
She ignores it.  
  
“Do you miss it?” Mary Margaret asks, uncertainly.  
  
Emma shrugs.  
  
The truth is, of course she misses having somewhere to run to; without an excuse, a reason, it just looks like she can’t handle actually building a life somewhere.  
  
…  
  
Ruby doesn’t seem to care that it’s the start of winter, and normal people would probably opt to wear more clothing, not less.  Emma knows she’s been in this crazy-ass town too long when the sight of booty shorts in October just makes her smile.  
  
“Hey,” she says, sliding into her usual seat at the bar.  “The usual?”  
  
“It’s a little early for a drink, Em; and when _I_ say that...” Ruby tells her, leaning over the counter in a way that manages to look supportive and friendly, even with the lack of clothing.  
  
Emma rolls her eyes half-heartedly.  “I meant _coffee_.  And... the paper, if you have it.”  
  
Ruby delivers her both without further comment and only tries to pat her on the arm once, which all things considered is an improvement on most of the last two weeks.    
  
Emma figures it’s that thing where time moves on, generally; even though the entire town _knows_ what happened, to them it’s something that’s already starting to exist in the past.  A few weeks from now, people will actually have to remind themselves that once upon a time, Emma Swan and Regina Mills were together.  
  
She stares at her left hand unwillingly, and the almost scar-like white band that stretches around her ring finger.  The ring itself is dangling around her neck, hidden from sight by the sweater she’s wearing--but nobody needs to know that.  Eventually, the skin on her finger will even out into a single color again, and that’ll be the end of it, on the surface anyway.  
  
The doorbell rings behind her, but it’s the middle of the morning and she’s not expecting anyone she knows to step through; all of her friends are gainfully employed.  
  
Of course, then a hand settles on her shoulder and David says, “Hey”, before leaning past her and holding up two fingers to Ruby, who is reading a gossip rag on a chair close to the kitchen.  
  
“No animals that need sheltering?” Emma asks.  
  
There’s always this forced politeness in her conversations with David, where she tries not to judge him for not being able to cut the cord, and he pretends that he can’t feel her judging him all the same.  A hesitant smile plays around his lips, and then, after an almost imperceptible pause, he slides onto the stool next to hers.  
  
“It’s a quiet morning.  Sean and Ashley are thinking about fostering one of the dogs, but they need to get the baby checked for allergies first.  I think they’re coming in later.”  
  
Emma nods.  Even after all these years of sort of living in Storybrooke, she still has no idea how to have conversations like this.  Talking about tackling some guy in a dark alley and cuffing him in the back of her car--yeah, that she can handle.  But all this talk about domestic crap...  
  
Sometimes, she really thinks half the reason that Regina went from an ill-advised naked sparring partner to just a _partner_ is that she’s the only other person in Storybrooke who doesn’t have the stomach for small talk, either.  
  
David’s fingers tap against the bar counter and then he clears his throat.  “Listen, I’m--not really the guy to offer other people advice on how to deal with their relationship problems...”  
  
Emma can’t hold back on surprised laughter in time, and then has to clear her throat compulsively a few times to stop.  Ruby puts down two take-away cups in front of David and he murmurs a thanks as he pays her, before looking back at Emma.  
  
“You were saying?” Emma says.  It manages to come out not entirely incredulous.  
  
“Henry was talking about the two of you yesterday, when we were waiting for Mary Margaret to post your bail?”  David rubs at the back of his head briefly, as Emma nods.  “A lot of it was... well, you know how kids are, but he seems to think that you two are really meant to be together.  Not for his sake, but for _yours_.”  
  
Emma tries not to sigh; at the back of the diner, Granny and Ruby are having a whispered argument about what to play on the jukebox.  
  
“Look, I can see what you’re trying to do, but sometimes I can barely believe it lasted six years to begin with.  I mean, we don’t have _anything_ in common.”  
  
David tilts his head at her.  “With six years, there has to be _something_.”  
  
The jukebox switches from some insipid boyband to the Supremes, and Emma rubs at the knuckles on her left hand.  “Nope.  Nothing.  I like junk food, Regina’s a health freak.  I like going out, getting drunk and dancing; Regina likes balancing the town budget and making other kids’ mothers cry.  I like 80s metal; Regina has an iPod full of classical music and jazz.  I can keep going...”  
  
“Metal?” David asks, making a face.  
  
Emma can’t help a small, melancholy smile.  “Yeah.  The first blow-out fight we ever had was, if you can believe it, about an old Guns ‘N Roses tape I played Henry in my car once.”  
  
The whole thing still seems too ridiculous to have actually happened.  Henry had been singing the chorus to _Paradise City_ in his bedroom, with all the swagger that an incredibly preppy and well-mannered five year old could manage, while downstairs, Regina had blown a fuse about her “devious, futile efforts” to turn the kid into a “white trash miscreant like yourself”.  
  
Emma had kept her cool until the ‘white trash’ comment.  After that, there had only been a high-pitched shouting match and, ultimately, a tearful kid begging them both to be good.  
  
 _The glory days_ , she now thinks, wryly.  
  
“Really?” David asks, with a small glint in his eyes.  “I thought it was about you recklessly running down the town sign--”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes.  “I wasn’t _reckless._ The weather was terrible and if _she’d_ fixed that pothole right outside of the town limits, okay, I wouldn’t have had to swerve--”  
  
She forces herself to stop when she can see David struggling to hide a smile.  
  
“When someone gets to you enough to get you to completely lose your cool over _Axl Rose,_ Emma, that has to mean something.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe,” Emma says, finishing off the last of her coffee and then pushing the cup away from her.  “But it doesn’t mean anything good.”  
  
David falls silent after that, and Emma knows he’s thinking about Mary Margaret, just by the gloomy expression on his face.  He looks more torn than he has any right to, given that his problem is one that _has_ a solution... and just like that, it pisses her off to no end again, that he has the nerve to tell her how to deal with her feelings while he plainly refuses to deal with his own.  At the expense of her best friend, no less.  
  
The “how’s your wife?” is meant to be a one-off little dig, an end-of-conversation, but even though David tenses and gives her a wounded look, it’s not.  
  
“She’s trying to talk yours out of filing for divorce, actually,” he says, as curt as Emma has ever heard him.  As he collects his coffee to go, he adds an unwarrantedly gentle, “I thought you deserved to know before you get served with any paperwork.”  
  
Emma flinches and says, “David, I--”  
  
“I know,” he says, but his smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes this time, and Emma knows that there’s no excuse for her taking any of this out on the wrong people.  
  
…  
  
“Do you have an appointment--”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes and strides right into Regina’s office, slamming the door shut behind her.  
  
Regina, of course, barely looks up from whatever permit she’s currently mulling over; she just peers at Emma over the top of reading glasses that--and it’s so unfair--make her look even better than she normally does.  
  
“Really?” is about all Emma can manage.  She already regrets running to the town hall, but can’t really _undo_ it, and so she just sucks in as much air as she can as Regina plucks the glasses off her face and folds them up.  
  
“I have no idea what you’re talking about--”  
  
"I swear to God, if you call me _Miss Swan_ one more time, I will--” Emma starts, before realizing she has nowhere to take that sentence.  A glower isn’t even in the cards right now; something about Regina contemplating legal separation hurts _so_ much that she knows she only looks wounded.  
  
Regina pauses, and then tilts her head slightly.  “ _Emma._ I have no idea what you’re talking about.  If you think you can manage to use your words...”  
  
“ _You_ don’t get to divorce _me_ ,” Emma says, swallowing away the last of her windedness and then walking towards Regina’s desk.  The temptation to just brush everything off it is terrible, but she doesn’t need to be called immature again, and so she just braces her hands on the edge of it and searches Regina’s face for a reaction.  “You just don’t.”  
  
Regina looks startled and then frowns, before pursing her lips.  “Remind me to talk to Kathryn about what attorney-client privilege actually entails.”  
  
Emma feels like the wind gets knocked out of her all over again.  “So it’s true.”  
  
They look at each other silently.  Emma wonders if Regina also feels like she’s trying to read a total stranger, trying to uncover some truth that seems almost unbearable.  
  
“No, dear, it’s not,” Regina says, finally.  “You know full well I have no desire to leave you.  I believe I made that perfectly clear those seventeen or so times I begged you to give me another chance.”  
  
Emma feels her skin prickle with rage.  “How _dare_ you try to make me feel like the bad guy here.  You wouldn’t _need_ another chance if you hadn’t thrown away everything we had--”  
  
“I’m not _trying_ to make you feel anything,” Regina says, forcefully.  “I’m merely reminding you of the fact that I didn’t choose to end our relationship.   _You_ did.”  
  
It’s always fucking semantics with Regina.  There’s a reason she always gets what she wants in town meetings, and why Mary Margaret basically quivers every time a PTA meeting rolls around when Emma is out of town.  
  
She won’t let Regina talk circles around her, though.  Not today.    
  
“So you _didn’t_ schedule a meeting with Kathryn today.”  
  
“Oh, I did,” Regina says, folding her hands in her lap.  “But not to talk about dissolving our partnership.  I assumed you’d want the honor.”  
  
The dark smile on Regina’s face is so bitter that Emma can’t bear to look at it either.  “What, then?”  
  
“Custody,” Regina says, before exhaling slowly and then adding, quietly, “Henry needs the security of a predictable schedule right now, and I wanted to discuss the possibility of setting up a formal agreement regarding his sleeping arrangements.”  
  
The knife twists, just like that.  Emma thought it was done with her, but no--there really doesn’t seem to be a limit to how much Regina can hurt her.  
  
“Naturally, he will live with _me_ , but I’m willing to let him stay with you every other weekend.”  Regina looks back at her, and something about the slight crinkling near her eyes makes Emma’s heart--traitorous as it is--spasm with regret all over again.  “If you think you can manage a schedule that frequent, anyway.  There’s no point in making him promises you don’t intend to keep.”  
  
“Every other--” Emma starts to say, and then just shakes her head.  “What is _wrong_ with you?  Do you really think I don’t want to see him?  He’s _my_ kid too, Regina, no matter who gave birth to him.”  
  
“I don’t want to force yet another commitment on you that you neither want nor can handle, dear,” Regina says, a bit of steel in her voice now.  “God knows you never really have forgiven me for the last one.”  
  
“Fuck _you_ ,” Emma snarls.  Her hands are gripping the table so hard that it hurts, but it’s all she can do stop herself from strangling Regina.  “Maybe I didn’t see the point in getting married, but I’m not the one who basically pissed all over the vows we made that day, and I can’t believe you’d think that I would _ever_ do anything to let Henry down.”  
  
In the distance, the clock tower chimes, and Regina looks out the window and then visibly deflates; it’s just in the way her mouth is set, but Emma knows she’s just scored a point, somehow.    
  
“Regardless, Henry needs stability right now.  He needs routine, and it falls to us to establish one for him.”  
  
Emma pushes away from the desk, but doesn’t know how to go far; not when Regina’s eyes grow soft as she stares into the distance, like she’s picturing the kinds of routines she’s always wanted and never really did manage to squeeze out of the relationship they were in.  
  
“And what if I want him every weekend?” she finally asks.  
  
Regina shifts in the minutest of ways, the leather of her chair groaning slightly.  “That would require you to _be_ here, or at least nearby, every weekend.”  
  
“Yeah, thanks, I got that.  What’s your point?”  
  
“If you’re _here_ every weekend, by all means.  I have no desire to keep him from seeing you.  He’s already lost...”  The sentence trails off, and then Regina pins Emma with a look so determined that she has to fight to not take a step back.  “But so help me, the first time he expects to see you and you call me from a payphone in some godforsaken place like _Tallahassee_ to let me know that whatever petty criminal you’re scampering after hasn’t been caught yet--”  
  
Emma sighs.  “I’m not going back to bounty hunting, Regina.”  
  
Regina blinks at her just once, and then raises an eyebrow; as most things about her, it’s painfully attractive.  “What _are_ you going to do, then?”  
  
Emma licks at her lips--not missing how Regina seems to involuntarily follow the quick swipe of her tongue, something akin to regret flashing through her eyes--and then steps back from the desk, turning to face to the door before she answers and willing herself not to look back.  
  
“It’s none of your business, Madam Mayor.  Not anymore.”


	3. Chapter 3

The next day, she wakes up from an e-mail from [mayor.mills@storybrooke.me.us](mailto:mayor.mills@storybrooke.me.us) that tells her in no uncertain terms that, while Emma’s business might not be Regina’s business any longer, as Henry’s other parent, she’d like some general assurances that Emma doesn’t have any designs on a career even ‘seedier’ than the one she’s apparently left behind for good.  
  
Emma’s humiliation is complete when, after a listing of the types of jobs that Regina deems unsuitable--somehow, table dancing makes the list _twice_ \--the email ends with:  
  
 _While legally our domestic partnership does not require me to pay you alimony in the event of a separation, I’d like the certainty of knowing that my son will not just be fed on a diet of Fruit Loops and discount soda for two days of the week.  Unless you manage to find employment in the next few days, I’ll write you a check when you come to collect Henry on Friday night._  
  
The look on her face when she comes downstairs is thunderous to the point where Mary Margaret lunges across the table and takes the knife on Emma’s plate before she can reach for it.  Emma glares at her for half a second, before just stalking to the front door, grabbing the newspaper on the mat there, and violently flipping it open to the jobs section.  
  
…  
  
Storybrooke is an idyll.    
  
Seemingly through sheer force of will, Regina has shaped it into the kind of community that all good parents want their kids to grow up in.  The streets are safe, the adults are welcoming and neighborly, and nobody who lives there seems to have even the slightest inclination of moving to... well, _civilization._  
  
That utter lack of coming and going of people means that there are also virtually no job openings.  Not that Emma didn’t basically fail home ec, but even if she were qualified, nobody seems to be looking for waitresses or baristas or hell, _maids_.  She would’ve literally tripped over customer service ‘wanted’s if she’d still been in Boston, but Storybrooke has all the customer service it needs, apparently.  
  
The only job being advertized is one for a receptionist job at the paper, and after two days of staring at the ad and then finally summoning up the guts to call, she finds out that the interview is with Sidney Glass.  Mr. Glass is literally the only person in the entirety of Storybrooke who seems to be siding with _Regina_ in the break-up.  Plenty of residents are a little afraid of the Mayor and unwilling to badmouth her in whatever gossip is floating around the town, but Sidney is the only one who’s been giving Emma the stink-eye in a really overt way.  
  
There’s not a chance in hell that he’ll hire her, unless Regina yanks on one of the many strings she holds, which would once again make her beholden to Regina, which ...  
  
No.  
  
It’s just not an option, even though the cash in her wallet is dwindling to a pitiful half-stack of dollars and she’s only got a few days left before she has to face Regina again.  
  
...  
  
Ruby lives by a simple creed, whereby tequila fixes just about everything.  Mary Margaret is more into drinking alcohol _without_ having to taste it, but when Emma shoves the salt shaker towards her, she just sort of sighs and says, “Oh, alright then--but only because you’re depressed and I don’t want you taking it out on my appliances any more.”  
  
Ruby claps her hands and lets out a squeal--she’s several shots ahead of them--and then hip-checks Emma before pointing at a group of men by the bar.  “What do you think?” she asks.  
  
“About... men?” Emma asks, squinting.  
  
Ruby rolls her eyes.  “No, silly, about _those guys_.  The one in the green plaid has been checking you out all night, and--”  
  
Emma peers across the bar and winces.  “Oh, that’s--his name is Michael, and he’s not checking me out, he’s glaring at me because he fixed the brakes on the Bug a few weeks back and I haven’t paid him yet.”  
  
Mary Margaret delicately spits out a slice of lime, cheeks now red and eyes spectacularly wide, and slaps the table with the flat of her hand.  “You _have_ to settle your accounts, Emma.  It’s important to not have debt, and to have good relationships with the people in this town.  There are only so many of us--”  
  
“Oh my God, lighten up,” Ruby says, passing Emma another shot.  “I’m sure Em will pay him any day now, just like she’ll settle her bill at the diner--right, babe?”  
  
An elbow is jammed into her side unexpectedly, and liquor sloshes out of the shot glass and all over her lips.  Emma _knows_ she’s a mess, and for a moment gets stuck imagining herself slinking back into her house later tonight; Regina would be propped up in bed in some satiny slip of a nightgown, reading a budget report with a stern expression on her face, before accusing her of smelling like a distillery.  
  
Everything was a potential argument between them; half of those ended with Emma showering first and then sulking on her own side of the bed, and the other half with Regina’s bed wear torn to pieces and a budget report sailing to the other side of the room.  
  
She blinks out of the thought when it’s clear that both of her companions are staring at her, and then says, “I’m kind of … broke.”  
  
It sort of kills the mood.  Mary Margaret sags down, cupping her stupid cocktail with its even more stupid umbrella to her chest, and says, “Oh, Emma.  Was that the last of your savings?”  
  
“Yeah.  Pretty much,” Emma says, unable to fight the embarrassed flush that lights up her skin.  “I’ll sort something out, guys, I swear.  I just...”  
  
“It’s cool,” Ruby says, patting her on the hand.  “If I had the choice of being looked after by some hot sugar mommy, I totally-- _ow_.”  
  
The stern look on Mary Margaret’s face makes Emma want to chuckle, but the urge to drop her head in her hands and groan is greater.  “Oh, God.  I let her turn me into a _kept woman_.”  
  
“Hey,” Mary Margaret says, putting a warm hand on her shoulder and squeezing gently.  “There is nothing wrong with that, but Emma, if you don’t want to be... kept, you don’t have to be.  You have _so_ many skills.  I really believe you can do just about anything you set your mind to.”  
  
“Except maybe electrical engineering,” Ruby adds, with a wide, teasing grin, before toasting Emma with another shot.  
  
“Well, yeah.  Definitely nothing involving tools, but you’re really good with violence.  Oh, and children.  Violence and children,” Mary Margaret brightly agrees, before loudly slurping up the last remnants of her fruity cocktail.  
  
Emma stares at her for a few seconds.  
  
“ _Not_ at the same time, obviously,” Mary Margaret amends.  “But all those years of fending for yourself on the road... there has to be _some_ way you can use what you learned there, right?”  
  
…  
  
Yeah, there is, but...  
  
...  
  
She finds herself looking at the calendar in the kitchen and bottoming out her last bottle of whiskey at 12.43am on Wednesday.  There’s not even enough sauce left to get her drunk, and so she’s stuck letting the taste of it linger in her mouth, rubbing her hand across her lips and thinking about what options she has left.  
  
There’s just one, really.  It’s close to the last thing she wants to be doing, but given a choice between a hand-out from Regina, a favor from Regina, or some emotional blackmail she can deliver herself, the latter is going to win.  
  
As she tosses the bottle in the trash, it occurs to her that Regina would be proud of what she’s about to do.  It’s an unwanted thought, one she tries to chase off by heading up to bed and flicking through an old _X-Men_ comic that Henry left behind a few weeks ago.    
  
She stares at Emma Frost’s face, and wonders what it would be like to read Regina’s mind for a few moments; what the hell she’d even find in there.  Some days, she’s sure she needs to know; and other days, she’s sure that finding out will destroy her in one way or another.  
  
The clock tower chimes one, and she tosses the comic to the floor before pulling the covers up to her chin and curling up underneath them.  It’s hard not to think of the days when she’d slept with her feet off the edge of the bed, next to the endless heat that seemed to just flow from Regina and spread across the entire mattress throughout the night.    
  
Sometimes, Emma doesn’t think she’ll ever be warm again.  
  
...  
  
To Graham’s credit, he looks queasy but stays put when she shows up in his office.  
  
“Miss--” he says, before hesitating.  “I mean, Mrs. …”  
  
“Try Deputy,” she says, even though that doesn’t really solve the problem of what _name_ he’s supposed to address her by.  Not that she’s ever really used Mills.  People just started assuming, what with her agreeing to become Regina’s property and all.  
  
“You--you want to work … with me?”  
  
“ _Want_ is a strong word.  More like, I need money, and my resume’s a little lacking in activities that don’t involve chasing people who have broken the law.”  She bites on the inside of her lip for a second as Graham trembles in front of her like a kicked puppy, and then adds, “I’m pretty sure I’m qualified for the position, but either way.  The way I see it, you kind of owe me one.”  
  
“A favor,” Graham says, finally gathering the courage to look her in the eye.  “Emma, I--”  
  
“I didn’t mean a favor,” Emma says, unable to keep all the loathing she feels when she looks directly at him out of her voice.  “You owe me a hell of a lot more than that and you know it.  Giving me this job is the very least you can do.”  
  
It’s almost like a shoot-out at noon, the way they’re facing each other on opposite sides of his desk, until Graham opens up a drawer and reaches for a badge that he silently slides her way.  
  
She pins it to her belt and raises an eyebrow at him.  “So, what is it that we actually do?  I mean, I figure this job involves more than warming the Mayor’s bed from time to time.”  
  
For a second, she thinks he’s going to try to apologize again and might even beg for her forgiveness, but it passes quickly.  Instead, he sits up straighter and meets her gaze head on, lets her judge him.    
  
“It’s mostly rescuing cats from trees.  An almost daily occurrence around these parts, if you can believe it,” he then says, not without humor.  
  
The question rips from her mouth before she can stop herself.  “And the bed-warming?  How often do you do that, Sheriff?”  
  
He stares at the badge she’s just pinned on, and then shakes his head.  “It was the third time.  And the last.  She--”  
  
“ _Don’t_.  I don’t want to know.”  She turns away from him, sucks in a deep breath, and then closes her eyes briefly.  The visual that assaults her--Regina on top, Graham holding onto her hips for dear life, neither of them looking anything other than desperate--is one she doesn’t know if she can ever let go of, but she _has_ to.  
  
If she’s going to prove Regina wrong about how reliable she can be for Henry’s sake, she doesn’t have any choice but to let it go.  
  
…  
  
The promotions panel at the hospital is running late, or so says a business-like text from Regina, who wants to know if Miss Swan can please free herself from her busy schedule of unemployment to collect Henry from school.  
  
Somehow, Emma resists the urge to snappily text back that it’s not a weekend yet, _dear,_ and Regina can go fuck herself.  It really is tempting, but seeing the kid is more so.  
  
She trudges over to the elementary school on foot, her new badge tucked into her coat pocket for the time being.  Telling Henry about her job is one thing, but if she tells him now she’ll also be telling Mary Margaret, who is likely to ask a bunch of questions that Emma doesn’t really have answers to.  
  
Like: _are you sure you can handle this?_  
  
Even in Mary Margaret’s well-meaning and sympathetic voice, it’s a question that reminds her too much of Regina’s utter lack of faith in her.  
  
...  
  
By the time she gets to the school, Henry’s already out on the front steps, Mary Margaret next to him.  The huge book of fairy tales is spread out over their laps and Emma runs her tongue along her teeth to quell the urge to tell Mary Margaret not to encourage him.  
  
As soon as Henry spots her, the book is mostly forgotten anyway; he knocks it over and leaves it on Mary Margaret’s lap before running over to greet her.  The easy way in which he hugs her now is a lightyear away from the reluctant way he hovered around her when she and Regina weren’t really sure of what they were doing yet; as a four year old, Henry always looked like he wanted to come closer, but was also afraid he’d get burned.  
  
Somehow, over the years, Emma has managed to dispel that fear--but his grip on her jacket has a desperate quality now that wasn’t there before, and it’s the worst, the way that makes her feel guilty.  It’s actually the worst part of it all, because none of this is _her_ fault.  
  
“What are you guys up to?” she asks, when Henry finally eases up on his hold a little.  
  
“Reading about how the Evil Queen killed her own dad just because she needed his heart for a spell,” Henry says, solemnly.  
  
Emma shoots Mary Margaret a look that’s returned with one of equal concern, and then kneels down in front of Henry.  “Kid--your grandpa died of completely natural causes before you were born, okay?  You’ve seen the pictures of him and your grandma--”  
  
Henry’s face tightens.  “That’s what she _told_ you.”  
  
Emma tries not to look exasperated.  “Well, yeah, because it’s the truth.”  
  
“But you weren’t _there_ when he died, so there’s no way you can be sure that she didn’t steal his heart.”  
  
Talking to him is like trying to duke out an argument with a miniature Regina sometimes; even the way his mouth sets while he waits for her to come up with a rebuttal reminds Emma of his mother.  
  
“Will it make you feel better if I try to find some medical records that--”  
  
“She can fake those, Emma; she’s in charge of _everything_.”  
  
Given that Henry’s whole world is contained to Storybrooke, she realizes it must actually feel that way to him, sometimes.  She’s about to start explaining that actually, his mother doesn’t have any sort of say about how hospitals outside of Storybrooke are run when he tugs on the hem of her jacket and looks at her pleadingly.  
  
“What if none of this is real and she just made it all up?”  He studies Emma’s face for another moment and then steps away, turning back towards the book.  “There’s a story in the book about this curse that she casts--with her father’s heart.  It makes everything real go away, and all the happy endings are ruined because of it.  It’s--”  
  
Mary Margaret slams the book shut before he can start using it as a twisted form of evidence again.  “Henry, it’s only a _story_.  There’s a message there that speaks to all of us, but that doesn’t mean that the story itself is _true_.”  
  
“But it _is_ true!  If there wasn’t a curse, everyone would get their happy ending.  Prince Charming would be with _you_ , like he’s supposed to be.  He would've never married Princess Abigail at all.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s face pales spectacularly at the plain conviction in the kid's words. She opens her mouth, probably to object to his childish, fantastical version of her life, but nothing comes out.  
  
Emma tugs on the end of Henry’s collar until he’s back at her side.  “Kid, come on.  If what you’re saying is true, and we are all characters in this book, that would mean that... I mean, who is Ruby supposed to be?”  
  
“The big bad wolf, _obviously_ ,” Henry says, a kind of desperate annoyance all over his face.    
  
It’s tempting to dwell on the idea of Ruby having _fur_ , but Henry is about one second away from throwing a gigantic tantrum.  Trying to talk sense into him is getting her exactly nowhere, which leaves...  
  
She sighs and rubs at her eyes, suddenly exhausted.  “All right.  Say you’re right, and we’re all under a curse...”  
  
“I _am_ right,” Henry interjects, with a fierce scowl that Emma just wants to kiss away.  
  
“ _If_ there is a curse...  How do we break it?”  
  
Henry looks at her like she’s a total idiot, and then directs a similar look at a still wan-faced Mary Margaret.  “ _Duh_.  With true love.”  
  
“Okay.  So true love breaks the curse,” Emma says, nodding and fixing the beanie on Henry’s head, before looking at him seriously.  “Henry, if that’s true, the curse would’ve been broken _years_ ago, okay?”  
  
He blinks up at her in confusion.  “Why?”  
  
“Because...” she says, trying to ignore Mary Margaret, because she’s entering into the realm of mortifying touchy-feely crap right now, but whatever.  It might just work.  She bites her lip for a second and then just cups Henry’s cheek.  “I really don’t think I can love anyone more than I love you.  And if that’s not true love--”  
  
She hears, more than sees, Mary Margaret sigh, and knows that Henry can tell she means it from the way that the frown on his forehead smooths out, but after a second, he just gives her an almost pitying smile and steps closer to her.  
  
The hug she gets feels like consolation, not happiness.  
  
“Emma--” he murmurs into her jacket.  “It’s not _me_ you have to love.”  
  
She knows her body stiffens against his, and that Mary Margaret can see it, but pulls back enough to look at him anyway.  “Do you really think I don’t love your mom?”  
  
He studies her face before smiling faintly.  “No, I know you do.  The best you can, anyway.”  His smile fades when he adds, “But I don't think she knows how to love you back.”  
  
A lump the size of Henry’s fist is suddenly lodged in her throat, and she honestly can’t form words while he keeps looking at her, like he can will her to understand what he means and what he expects her to do about it.    
  
“You have to _teach_ her, Emma,” he says, enunciating every word carefully.  “If you don’t, she’ll never love anyone and the curse will never be broken.”  
  
Tears thankfully don’t shoot into her eyes until after Mary Margaret, in an almost apologetic tone of voice, calls Henry over to the steps to gather up his things.  
  
...  
  
Mary Margaret likes to say that there’s nothing that can’t be fixed by a rom com and hot chocolate with cinnamon sprinkled on top, but when two mugs of the stuff are put in front them in the diner a good twenty minutes later, Emma’s pretty sure that it won’t cure whatever is wrong with her and Henry right now.  
  
As she blows on her drink and watches Henry and Mary Margaret talk about the bird feeders they’re building in class, she realizes that the only person who seems to be managing just fine these days is Regina.  
  
It’s the greatest injustice of all, that somehow she’s surviving the havoc she's caused when everyone else is drowning in it.


	4. Chapter 4

Being the deputy is kind of a joke; but it’s a joke that pays, which in Emma’s book makes it a pretty good one.    
  
Graham, as it turns out, wasn’t kidding about the volume of feline issues in Storybrooke; that aside, she’s mostly getting good at writing out parking tickets.  It’s making her really damn popular with the locals; apparently, when it was just Graham, the department's pursuit of traffic violations fell to the wayside a little, but she’s catching up in spades.  
  
On her fourth day on the job, some kids are trying to buy liquor from a store on the wrong side of the high school--a side of town she’s absolutely never been to, because Regina wouldn’t be caught dead there--and it's actually a small rush to be able to lecture them and deliver them back to their parents for an even sterner talking-to.  It's like she's actually in the business of law enforcement, now.  
  
It’s a long way away from the thrill-chasing she’s used to, but the pay is steady and she’s not likely to get her killed unless she falls off a ladder.  It counts for something that when she tells Henry that she’ll be fine--with him squirming in excitement about getting a ride in the squad car--she actually believes it herself.  
  
…  
  
On the last day of her first week, Mary Margaret hands her a thermos of coffee with a hesitant little smile.  
  
“What?” Emma asks, bending down to check her make-up in the kettle’s reflection and then straightening again.  
  
“Nothing.  Just...”  Mary Margaret sort of hops from one foot to the other, and then crushes her into a spontaneous hug.  “I’m really glad you’re--adjusting.  That’s all.  Adjusting, and not--”  
  
“Leaving,” Emma finishes.  
  
She feels, more than sees, Mary Margaret nod; her upper arms are being held tightly when Mary Margaret pulls back, and tells her, very seriously, “I don’t know what I did before you came to town, Emma.  I had... no friends my age.  No friends at _all_ , really, unless Ruby taking pity on me from time to time counts.”  
  
“Hey,” Emma starts, but Mary Margaret shakes her head forcefully.  
  
“No--please, let me.”  She glances at Emma’s boots and her own bare feet for a second, and then looks back at Emma’s face.  “I don’t ever want you doing anything that’s making you miserable on  my account, but I don’t know what I would’ve done if you’d left.  So thank you.  For not leaving.”  
  
Emma’s a little bit--okay, no, a _lot_ speechless, and ultimately just ends up scuffing her boot against the floor and sheepishly holding up the thermos.  “Thanks for … the coffee.  I guess.”  
  
The way Mary Margaret rolls her eyes is nothing short of affectionate, and as she heads down to the squad car, Emma realizes that for the first time in about a month, now, she actually feels a little bit _better_.  
  
…  
  
Of course, that’s before Graham stops next to her desk and says, “Can I have a word?”  
  
“You’re the boss,” Emma says, leaning away from the paperwork she’s filing about some minor vandalism in the public park.    
  
She says it, but they both know that Graham’s not _really_ in charge, and won’t be until Emma decides that he can be.  He takes that knowledge in stride, though, and tugs on his tie for a second before exhaling softly.  “We have... weekly meetings with the Mayor, to discuss the general state of safety and orderliness in the town.”  
  
Emma forces herself to play it off as if it’s something that doesn’t matter to her at all.  Any of this.  Like _Regina_ no longer matters.  “I feel like there’s a joke about an oral report here somewhere.”  
  
Graham doesn’t take the bait, and just holds out a folder to her.  "You should go.”  
  
Oh, it’s so pathetic, the way she winces at the idea of having a one-on-one meeting with Regina even once, let alone weekly.  “I really--”  
  
“ _You should go,_ ” Graham stresses.  “If I go, you’ll never stop thinking that--”  
  
He’s right, annoyingly, and so Emma snatches the folder and tosses it on her to-do pile.  It’s really more of a to-do pile- _up_ , but whatever.   _She_ knows where everything is.  “Fine.  I’ll go.  Anything you’d like me to pass on?”  
  
“Just that … she was right, when she suggested that you’d make a great deputy,” Graham says, not looking at her.  
  
She really hates that he’s a nice guy.  Somehow, it makes what Regina did to her even more unforgivable.  
  
…  
  
This time, she knocks.  
  
Regina’s bid for her to enter is distant and professional in a way that makes Emma hesitate; it’s almost as if she’s not expecting Graham, or... if she is, that she just doesn’t really care to be seeing him at all.  
  
Checking her shirt for wrinkles really quickly, she then opens the door and steps inside.  She’s about to announce herself when Regina looks up and freezes with her pen still on a sheet of paper.  Emma pokes her tongue inside of her cheek and then holds up the folder Graham armed her with and says, “I’m here for the weekly update.”  
  
It only takes Regina a second to smoothly say, “Of course you are” and gesture at one of the chairs in front of her desk.  
  
It takes Emma about eight times as long to traverse the room and sit down in her designated spot.  She feels like a school child about to be scolded; Regina, of course, is sensible enough to have purchased visitor chairs that are lower than her own, so that anyone sitting in front of her is staring up at her.  
  
It’s management for rookies, and it’s almost beneath someone as naturally imposing as Regina is, in her expensive tailored suits and her trimmed-every-three-weeks and perfectly styled hair... but that doesn't mean it doesn't work.  
  
As soon as Emma sits down, she spots a coffee stain on the left leg of her jeans, and puts the folder down on top of it, but when she looks back at Regina, she knows it’s been spotted just by the light curl of Regina’s upper lip.  
  
When Emma opens her mouth, it’s really just to say, _I don’t know how to do this_ , but before she can get the words out, Regina nods at the folder.  “I assume Graham briefed you on what the report covers.”  
  
“He didn’t, really.  He really just said he didn’t want to go to these meetings anymore,” Emma admits.  Her voice gets an unwanted bitter tinge as she adds, “He didn’t want me to get the wrong idea about what a meeting with the Mayor entails, I guess.”  
  
A muscle in Regina’s cheek tics violently.  “I see.”  
  
“Uh huh,” Emma says, flipping the folder open and taking out the summary statement that Graham prepared on their work.  She places it on the desk and sends it forward towards Regina.  “Guess we’ll both just have to suck it up, huh?  Be professional adults, or something.”  
  
As soon as the words leave her mouth, she wishes she could take them back.  She doesn’t have to look at Regina to know they’re both thinking of the same memory--but when she does glance at Regina’s face, mouth twisting downward the very same way it had that day, it’s almost a welcome distraction from what their relationship has been reduced to.  
  
‘Nothing’ really isn’t the lowest it can go, apparently.  
  
...  
  
 _Actually, your crappy roads and that sign sort of broke the hell out of my car, so the way I see it, you owe me money for not fixing up that pothole--_  
  
 _It’s outside of the town boundaries, Miss … Swan, is it?  I don’t owe you a cent for any damage you incurred while destroying public property, but if you’d like to try your luck with the state, I’d be happy to give you a number for the Department of Transportation._  
  
 _Gee, thanks.  Do you also have a number for the department that specializes in getting sticks out of people’s asses?  Because I can think of someone who would benefit from giving them a call right now._  
  
 _Miss Swan, much as I would like to continue in this juvenile exchange for the rest of my day, unlike you I have a job that I’d like to get back to, so why don’t you just write a check for the estimated damages here and..._  
  
 _Really can’t afford to pay for your novelty road marker as well as my car, lady._  
  
 _How unfortunate for you._  
  
 _I’d say it’s pretty unfortunate for both of us, actually, because I’m not handing over any money until the town of uh--where am I, again?_  
  
 _The sheriff’s department will have no choice but to incarcerate you again if you cannot pay for the damages, dear._  
  
 _Yeah, I’m sure, but keeping me in prison isn’t going to fix your sign, now is it?_  
  
 _Fine.  What are you proposing?_  
  
 _That we both suck it up.  You pay me, I pay you.  Your sign gets fixed, and I get the hell out of your town.  Nobody wins, but just think about the headaches we’ll both avoid._  
  
 _..._  
  
“Still can’t believe you actually made me paint the sign myself,” Emma says, softly, when Regina’s reaching for the sheet of letter-sized paper in front of her.  “I mean, I _paid_ you, and you still made me--”  
  
“We were together for … how long, now?” Regina asks, cutting her off.  Her eyes are trained on the paperwork, but Emma isn’t fooled by that for a second.  
  
“Depends on if you want to let that first year of random booty calls count or not.”  
  
“Six years, then,” Regina says, in a tone of voice Emma can’t read.  “And how many times have you heard me refer to the town’s emergency Volkswagen repair budget in that time?”  
  
Emma stretches out her legs under the desk and then snorts.  “I know you thrive on creating paperwork for yourself, but come _on_.  That’s not a real thing.”  
  
“Exactly.”  Regina directs a bland look at her, over the top of Graham’s report.  “I’m glad to see your deductive skills have blossomed over in the Sheriff’s Department.”  
  
“What’s your point, Mayor Mills?”  
  
Regina doesn’t answer; just hands the report back.  “A quiet week.”  
  
It’s hard not to laugh.  “I mean, compared to the last few weeks, when I discovered that you were cheating on me and then had to deal with my kid having some sort of mental break--”  
  
“I _meant_ the department,” Regina cuts her off.    
  
That’s terse in a way where Emma knows she’s unexpectedly struck a nerve, and she narrows her eyes.  “Yeah, the cats in Storybrooke live to see another day... what’s going on with Henry?”  
  
Regina says nothing for longer than is technically comfortable, but then swallows visibly and admits, “He’s having some difficulty adjusting.”  
  
"It’s the fairy tale crap, isn’t it?”  
  
Regina exhales through her nose and then shrugs, suddenly looking tired.  “If it wasn’t that, I suspect it would be something else.”  
  
For one, brief moment, she looks approachable enough for Emma to actually _want_ to have a conversation that she’s refused to have--the supposed _explanation_ \--but the moment passes when Regina looks at her and slowly says, “I think we need to revisit … therapy.”  
  
It’s worrying.  
  
Regina’s never really been one to admit that Henry is anything short of perfect, so the fact that she’s wavering on his mental health means that something drastic has happened.  Emma sits up a little at the mere idea of it.  “What did he do?”  
  
Regina looks incredibly unhappy at whatever is coming next, and Emma finds herself unwillingly leaning forward.  “He’s refusing to do his homework, because--apparently it doesn’t matter, given that this isn’t the real world and when... I honestly can’t remember the details.  There’s something about a curse, I don’t know.”  
  
It’s the most flustered Regina’s sounded, ever, and Emma fights an urge to drop her forehead onto the desk.  “Ah, the curse.”  
  
“He’s... talked to you about this,” Regina states, more than asks.  It’s followed by a nearly inaudible, “Of course he has”, and for a sharp, hot second, Emma actually forgets what’s happened between them and reaches for Regina’s hand.  
  
Regina doesn’t pull away, which is when Emma realizes what she’s doing and yanks her hand back, forcefully running it through her hair as she blusters through an explanation.  “Hey, I was the one who wanted him to talk to a therapist about it, okay?  It doesn’t make any more sense if you get it in technicolor.”  
  
“Humor me,” Regina says, staring at her own hand for another moment before sinking back fully in her chair and looking at Emma almost impassively.  
  
“Well...”  Emma runs a hand through her hair and then can’t help a wry smile.  “He’s convinced himself that you don’t have a heart, and that because you can’t feel anything, you’ve cast a curse that makes everyone else miserable as well.  To do this, you killed your father--”  
  
“I did _what_?”  
  
Emma winces.  “Yeah.  And you’re... the reason that Mary Margaret is single, and--”  
  
“And _what,_ Emma?”  
  
It’s hard to look Regina in the eyes when she adds the last part of Henry’s nonsense, but what else can she do?  “He’s somehow gotten it into his head that the only person who can break the curse is me.”  
  
“And I suppose breaking this curse requires... killing me?” Regina asks, flatly.  
  
Emma feels her mouth fall open, gently.  “Uh--”  
  
“It makes sense,” Regina continues, letting her head fall back and staring at the ceiling for a few quiet seconds.  “Evil is to be exterminated, is it not?”  
  
“Jesus, Regina, I think he just wants us to hug it out; why would you ever think--” Emma starts, but then stops abruptly at the way that Regina’s chin trembles, just for a moment.  “Seriously--did something else happen?”  
  
Regina doesn’t respond immediately, but then tugs on the lapels of her jacket and straightens her posture, shaking her head just once.  “It doesn’t matter.  I think we both agree that whatever this behavior is, it has to stop--”  
  
“No _shit_ ,” Emma says, and then mumbles an almost automatic, “Sorry”, at the reproachful look Regina gives her.  
  
The hand that moves through Regina’s hair isn’t entirely steady, and neither is her voice when she says, “With your consent, then, I’ll make an appointment with Dr. Hopper as soon as possible, and … I’ll let you know how Henry progresses.”  
  
There’s nothing stopping Emma from just leaving it there, picking up that stupid folder and heading back to the Sheriff’s Department for a bear claw and a cup of hours-old coffee, but for whatever reason, looking at Regina stiffly sitting in that chair, she _wants_ to do the mature thing.  
  
Hell, maybe it’s just to prove Regina wrong about how adult she can be, if the reasons are right, but either way she shakes her head.  
  
“No, I don’t think so."  
  
"Excuse me?"  
  
"I don’t want to give him more reason to think that you’re somehow trying to hurt him.  We tell him together.  In fact--I do most of the talking, and you just stand there looking … the way you look.  That way he can’t take it all out on you.”  
  
All Regina says in response is, “As you wish, Deputy Swan”, but somehow it’s like they’re suddenly back on the wavelength they’ve occupied from time to time over the last six years; the one where Emma understands that nothing Regina ever says is what she actually _means,_ and the one where that’s an almost charming character trait, and not just a complete pain in the ass to navigate.  
  
“You’re welcome,” she murmurs, not hiding a small smile when Regina looks a little disgruntled at having been caught.  
  
…  
  
She doesn’t want to do this at the house, and credit to Regina, her first and only suggestion is that they tell Henry over a dinner in a neutral location.  
  
Ruby’s eyebrows nearly fly off her head as they all walk in together--a suspicious Henry leading the pack, glancing back at both of them with every second step--and Emma gives her a look sharp enough for her to shut up and merely sweep some menus off the counter.  
  
Emma can’t honestly remember if they’ve ever spontaneously both sat down across from Henry before.  The answer is probably not; somehow, they always ended up in a seating arrangement with one of them next to the kid, but that’s sort of anathema to what they’re hoping to convey to him tonight.  Her thigh brushes against Regina’s as she slides into the booth, but really, there’s only so much space she can put between them without being half an ass-cheek off the seat altogether.  
  
Before she can fixate on where her ass is further, Henry calls her back to the point of this get-together with a nervous, “What’s going on?”  
  
When Regina picks up a menu and starts studying it--like she didn’t actually stage a campaign three years ago to encourage healthier eating in Storybrooke’s few restaurants, and so knows _exactly_ what the diner serves--Emma remembers that she’s taking point on this one.  It’s another thing that’s never happened before.  Involved as she’s been in Henry’s life, she’s always just kind of deferred to what Regina thought was best, because...  
  
Well, shit.  Whatever else she is, Regina’s a good mother.  The kind Emma would've killed for growing up; someone so aware that it's almost suffocating.  
  
She scratches at her cheek and says, “We want to talk to you about... maybe going to talk to Dr. Hopper about your theories.  You know, about that book that Miss Blanchard gave you.”  
  
Henry’s eyes flash with betrayal, and then his head sort of slow-motion shifts to Regina, expression lasering in on her even though she’s still pretending to be reading the menu.  He opens his mouth, but then looks back at Emma with sheer panic written all over his face.    
  
“Kid--” Emma starts, but hesitates when he clamps his lips together and lowers his eyes to the menu.  
  
His whispered “you don’t believe me” is enough to make her glance at Regina, who--for once--looks exactly as hapless as Emma feels.  
  
“It’s not that we don’t believe you,” Emma says, smothering a cringe.  “It’s that... look, a lot in your life is changing right now, and to be honest, if I were you, I think I’d really like having someone to talk to about everything so that.. it can start making sense, or something.  Okay?  So your mom and I think that it’s probably--”  
  
At the mention of Regina, Henry’s expression darkens so abruptly that Emma falls silent, stuck watching as the kid rails on his mother again.  “What did you _do_ to her?”  
  
Regina lowers the menu and looks back at Henry, mostly evenly, but Emma can see the way the plastic is bending under her fingertips.  She reaches for Regina’s thigh in a silent warning, under the table, and then smoothly cuts in with, “Nothing, kid.  This was my idea.  It’s always been my idea; your mom actually thinks that there’s nothing wrong with, uh, your ideas, so--”  
  
Henry stills, and then, with the slightest narrowing of his eyes, tilts his head.  “So you don’t want me to talk to Dr. Hopper?”  
  
It’s directed at Regina, who tenses underneath Emma’s hand--and damn, that’s twice in one day that she’s sort of groped the Mayor without permission.  There isn’t really any subtle way to pull away right now, and for the sake of focusing on Henry, Emma just loosens her hold but keeps her hand there.  
  
“What do you mean, Henry?” Regina asks, when Emma stays silent.  
  
“You don’t... oh. I get it," Henry says, blinking a few times and then pinning Regina with a knowing look. "You think that if I talk to Dr. Hopper, he’ll figure out what you’ve done.  He’ll remember who he really is--”  
  
Emma clears her throat, shaking her head at Ruby as she approaches with a notepad; Ruby turns on her heels and heads off again without another word, but her whole face screams that Emma’s going to be interrogated the next time she’s in alone.  That’s still not really the point, here, though, and so she looks at Henry again.  “Who _do_ you think Dr. Hopper is, kid?”  
  
Henry loses some steam at the question, and looks at the table.  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” he finally mumbles.  
  
Regina purses her lips in a way that almost makes Emma laugh, before she ducks her head to try and catch Henry's eyes.  “Hey. Do you trust me?”  
  
The kid’s head lifts again, and the certainty in his voice is absolute when he says, “You’re the white knight, Emma, of course I trust you.”  
  
Regina’s leg shifts so acutely that Emma's hand topples off and hits the seat; she curls it up on her own lap again, staring at Henry.  “Okay, so--forget about Dr. Hopper and his fairy tale counterpart.  Will you just do this for me?”  
  
Henry hesitates, obviously struggling with the decision.  
  
After a few moments of him squirming miserably, Regina suddenly says, “That’s quite enough.  I agreed to let you propose this … therapy nonsense to Henry, but I will not sit here and watch you manipulate or bully him into--”  
  
Emma shoots Regina a baffled look, but before she can ask what the _fuck_ Regina’s playing at, Henry blurts out, “I’ll go.  I’ll do it, I’ll talk to Dr. Hopper.”  His voice hardens into something that would be threatening if he wasn’t ten when he adds, “About _everything_ ”, with an almost triumphant look at Regina.  
  
Regina sighs, before looking at Emma and saying, “I guess you win, Miss Swan”, so dryly that Emma almost laughs again.  
  
She murmurs, “I guess I do”, and then feels around her pockets for her keys when Henry looks between them and carefully asks, “So... are we still having dinner here, even though Emma won?”  
  
The confused but hopeful look on his face is enough to make Emma feel like crap, and it apparently has a similar effect on Regina, who freezes and seems to be waiting for Emma to make the call.  
  
She gnaws on  her lip, and then flags Ruby back over, before gently kicking at Henry’s legs.  “Only if you go wash your hands, kid.”  
  
Henry rolls his eyes at her, but clambers out of the booth anyway and heads to the back, and in the few moments that it takes Ruby to make her way over, Emma looks at Regina and shakes her head.    
  
“Well played,” she offers.  
  
The corner of Regina’s mouth lifts half-heartedly.  “The more you manipulate people into doing your bidding, the easier it gets, I suppose.”  
  
It’s the kind of comment that Regina probably means nothing by, but Emma can’t help but study her for a few moments anyway, as Regina orders for Henry and herself and then gives Emma a small, assessing look.  
  
“And for Miss Swan,” she then says, lightly raising her eyebrows for Emma to protest,  “A double cheeseburger, curly fries and a chocolate milkshake... no?”  
  
Emma knows her cheeks are heating up a little, but then nods curtly to Ruby anyway, who doesn’t bother hiding her amusement.  When Ruby saunters back to the kitchen, she looks at Regina and says, “How the hell do you know about that?  I’ve _never_ ordered it in front of you or the kid.  It’s delicious, but not worth the twenty minute lecture about setting bad examples and minding my cholesterol.”  
  
Regina shrugs with an achingly familiar glint in her eyes.  “I have my ways.”    
  
They sit silently for a few moments, and then Regina shifts again, curling into the corner of the booth as much as possible while still remaining ram-rod straight.  
  
“What?” Emma asks.  
  
Regina hesitates for a few more seconds, but then, as the door to the bathroom swings back open and Henry stops to talk to Ruby for a second, she blurts out, “What does this mean?”  
  
“What does what mean?”  
  
Regina’s face floods with rushed annoyance.  “This--dinner.  What are we doing right now?  Sending Henry mixed messages, or...”  
  
Some part of Emma bristles at being pushed, but that's drowned out at how unprepared she feels for anything off script.  It’s not the first time Regina’s had that effect on her, and her soft, “I honestly don’t know” is both truthful and a reminder of the fact that for six years now, she’s mostly been winging it.  
  
What is different is that for the first time, Regina doesn’t snap at her to figure it out; she just lets go of the breath she's holding and says nothing.  
  
“I’m still not ready to hear your excuses,” Emma adds, and then looks at Henry, grinning at something Ruby is explaining to him at the back of the diner; her hands are moving rapidly and Henry’s laughter somehow rings loud and clear over the din of all the other customers talking and eating.  “Honestly, this is the first day in a month where I haven’t just wanted to punch you in the teeth--and it’s mostly because doing that really won’t help Henry.”  
  
“Civility for his sake, then,” Regina repeats, neutrally enough for Emma to look at her briefly again.  Her face is utterly unreadable, but she nods after a moment and then says, “In your shoes, I’m not sure I could get past the need for... getting even.”  
  
“I know,” Emma says, and then forces herself to smile as Henry shuffles back over.  “But I’m not you.”  
  
“No, you are not,” Regina agrees, before shifting her attention back to Henry.  “Tell Emma about the class trip you’re going on next week, dear.  I’m sure she’s very interested.”  
  
...  
  
With the kid as a buffer, somehow, they end up having an almost normal meal.  It’s a mirage, of course, but Henry’s not the only one who benefits from just one night of make-believe, where everything is the way it ought to be and nobody ends up all alone.  
  
Having to trudge back to Mary Margaret’s afterwards is one hell of a cold shower, though thankfully her roommate is at home when she gets in; the door swings shut behind her and Mary Margaret incredibly obviously switches the channel to the evening news and then gives her an unconvincing bright look.  
  
“The pint of ice-cream kind of gives you up,” Emma points out, sinking down on the cushions next to her and reaching for it with a grabby hand gesture.  “What were you actually watching?”  
  
Mary Margaret sighs, and wipes at her eyes with the ends of her cardigan of the day; it’s a pale yellow, which Emma knows to take as a sign that she saw David today.  Kathryn Nolan wears a lot of yellow, too, and … well.  It doesn’t really matter.  
  
“Some … silly romantic drama.  They’re apart for years, but then ultimately they choose each other and make out in the rain.  It’s …”  
  
“Ridiculous?” Emma suggests, before scooping up a heap of the ice cream.  “Treacly?  Unrealistic?”  
  
“Silly,” Mary Margaret repeats, and then sniffles just once.  “But also--kind of beautiful.”  
  
Emma makes a noise of disgust and gets slapped on the thigh gently for it.  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with believing that love eventually always wins,” Mary Margaret says.  
  
“You sound like Henry,” Emma notes, plunging the spoon back in the ice cream.  “And anyway, making out in the rain has nothing to do with love.  That's foreplay. Love is all the crap that comes after the sex.”  
  
Mary Margaret is silent for a brief interlude, as the local news drones on about deer hunting season being in full force--a short clip of Graham with a bow and arrow strapped around his shoulder, leading a pack of hunters into the local woods playing in the background--and then slowly says, “You know, however much courage it takes to walk away, I think it almost always takes as much courage to stick around when life doesn’t work out the way you expect it to.”  
  
Emma looks at her and frowns.  “I thought we already covered that I’m not going anywhere.  Remember?  We had a...”  She can feel her face contort when she adds, “Moment”, so sullenly that Mary Margaret rolls her eyes.  “You gave me coffee.  It happened less than twelve hours ago?”  
  
“Don’t be a jerk,” Mary Margaret says, so primly that Emma bites her lip not to start laughing.  “What I mean is...”  She reaches for her necklace and tangles it around her fingers a few times, and then sinks back into the pillows, expression growing soft.  “I won’t think less of you when you forgive Regina for making what I’m sure is a _terrible_ mistake, and neither should you.”  
  
“ _When_?” Emma says, a little incredulously.  “I think you mean _if_ , and … I don’t know, toss in a few words about hell freezing over.  Calling it a mistake is like saying that... she took a wrong exit on the highway, okay?  She didn’t--”  
  
“Emma,” Mary Margaret says, before gently taking her hand and squeezing it just once.  “Ruby called earlier tonight, when you were apparently having dinner with your family, and said that for the first time in a month, you looked like you could breathe again.”  
  
Her lips clamp together abruptly, teeth clenching and her entire face tightening to the point where it hurts.  “Ruby has a big mouth.”  
  
“She does,” Mary Margaret concedes, “but is she wrong?”  
  
Emma feels all the air slowly drain from her lungs, and then just slumps back on the couch, ice cream on her lap but mostly forgotten about.  
  
“It’s awful that we have so little control over who we love,” Mary Margaret says, quietly.  “But I’d rather feel like this and have it hurt sometimes, than never feel anything like it at all.”  
  
The news broadcast ends with a reminder that adoptions at the local animal shelter are half price in the months leading up to Christmas, and as Dr. Thatcher runs off a quick spiel about how having a pet can teach a child a lot about responsibility, the camera moves over to David, holding a tabby kitten to his chest and talking to it softly as it’s drinking from a bottle.  
  
“Wow.  That’s the most emotionally manipulative thing I’ve ever seen,” Emma complains, closing her eyes.  “They’re almost selling him as _part_ of the adoption package.”  
  
“If only,” Mary Margaret says, wistfully.  “I’d have at least seven kittens here by now, if I thought it would...”  
  
Emma smiles wryly as Mary Margaret changes the channel back to the insipid movie she'd been watching, where the protagonists are now packing up their belongings and moving into a new build so quaint it makes Emma’s teeth ache. As the movie winds up, with scenes of them spending entirely average days together after what was presumably years of separation and struggle, Emma wonders how it is that that kind of domesticity only stopped scaring the crap out of her when it stopped being on offer.  
  
Mary Margaret gives her way more credit than she’s due, in any event.  There’s nothing brave at all about the way she struggled against it for years, and apparently only came around to appreciating it when it was already slipping out of her grasp.


	5. Chapter 5

Despite already having lived in Storybrooke full-time for about five months now, this is the first time she feels settled.  It’s the routine; it kind of chafes at her, but there’s something to be said for every day having a predictable pattern to it.  Nothing surprising ever happens in Storybrooke, it seems; on Mondays, she and Graham flip coins for the night shifts and discuss what routes they’ll patrol on, and it’s the most interaction she really has with her supposed supervisor.  
  
Wednesdays, she briefs Regina on what the department has done in the last week--and the day where Emma has to sit through Regina summarizing her inept efforts to chase off a rogue badger that set up shop behind Game of Thorns is definitely the highlight there--and on Fridays, she picks up Henry without even knocking on the door anymore.  
  
Seeing Regina standing there, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her torso, is starting to become an eyesore in an entirely different way; and the fourth time she goes and gets the kid for her designated time, she sticks up a hand in greeting that is met with a raised eyebrow and, to her amusement, a grudging extension of fingers back.  
  
Maybe she and Regina aren’t so dissimilar, when it comes down to it; most of what actually matters runs below the surface, but the truce they’re sticking to for Henry’s sake is working out just fine, as long as nobody thinks about it too hard.  
  
Everything seems to slowly be going back to normal, except for the part where even with Mary Margaret around most of the time, and a slowly growing collection of friends and acquaintances, she feels more alone in Storybrooke than she ever did out on the road.  
  
...  
  
Dr. “Call me Archie” Hopper rubs his hands together, when Emma goes in to get updated on Henry’s progress.  He gives her a nervous, sympathetic smile, and then gestures for her to sit down on a surprisingly comfortable sofa.  
  
“The best I’ve been able to tell, in digging through all the fantastical things running through his mind, Henry blames his mother for what has happened,” he then says, fiddling with the bridge of his glasses as he talks.  “He seems to think that she was always going to chase you off.  He calls it a curse, but what I’m sensing from the conversations we’ve been having is that he’s convinced that you won’t stay in Storybrooke.  He needs a scapegoat, and he’s found one, but there’s a very real fear of abandonment underneath all of it, Emma.”  
  
She sighs, and then throws up her hands, letting them limply fall back to her lap.  “What more can I do?  I mean, I pay Mary Margaret rent; I got a job; I’ve kept him for four weekends in a row now... No matter how much I’ve wanted to, I haven’t even set foot outside of the town limits.  If I was going to run, it would’ve been right after... well.”  
  
Archie nods, and then rubs at the back of his head.  “It’s hard.  Sometimes, seeing something isn’t the same thing as believing it.  Our minds can only interpret things that we understand, and your relationship with his mother has mostly developed in a way that is beyond him.  It’s left him very uncertain.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes.  “He’s _ten_.  I’d hope to God he doesn’t know the ins and outs of my relationship with his mother; it’s not really something _for_ him to understand, is it?”  
  
Archie’s smile flits away, and then is back just as quickly.  “I meant more that... he has very strong ideas of what a loving relationship is supposed to look like, and from what he’s told me, or not told me, it seems that your interactions have never fit the pattern he was expecting to see.”  
  
“Which was...” Emma asks, fighting the urge to just walk out the door; Regina's cheating on her established that she didn't meet the mark just fine on its own, thanks.  
  
Archie hesitates, running his hands over the fronts of his trousers, and then asks, “How much do you know about his father?”  
  
“Uh,” Emma says, before shrugging again.  “I’ve never really asked after the details, and it’s common knowledge that he died in an accident before Henry was born.  I mean, why push for more?  Regina’s not really a talker, and the kid obviously never met his dad so...”  
  
Archie grimaces.  “I guess... folks don’t like to be reminded of what happened, but... Emma, maybe you should ask Henry about this, because...”  
  
She doesn’t bother hiding her annoyance, now.  “So what, now he’s made up this crappy fantasy about his mom having a collection of hearts because … I’m going to leave him just like his father did?   _Seriously_?”  
  
Archie’s face registers some surprise, but mostly he just looks at her with the kind of patience that makes her ass itch; Mary Margaret excels at the same look, and it always makes her feel like she’s a three year old trying to solve a Rubik’s cube.  
  
“Talk to Henry, Emma.  He’s _dying_ to talk to you, so all you have to do is tell him that you’re willing to listen to him.  And I mean, _really_ listen.”  
  
…  
  
It seems counter-intuitive, to encourage the kid’s nonsense--even if it is doctor’s orders.  
  
She’s nursing a drink at the diner and waiting for Ruby to get off duty when something wooden  bumps against her leg and jars her from her thoughts--which mostly center on whether or not she wants to talk to Regina before talking to Henry; the urge to ask _what should I do?_ is overwhelming, but at the same time, almost like admitting that she’s only capable of this parenting thing when it's easy.  
  
“Apologies, Miss Swan,” Mr. Gold says. There’s a hitch in his movement when he settles on the stool next to her, parking his cane between their seats.  “Or--Deputy Swan now, is it?”  
  
The smile he gives her in greeting is gone as quickly as it arrives, and she just nods at him and then stares at her drink again.  Maybe there’s some sort of wisdom to be found at the bottom of the glass; she doesn’t mind trying to find it, in any event.  
  
Mr. Gold orders a brandy from Ruby, who pours it without even asking for payment, which isn’t all that surprising.  He’s got his hands on half the real estate in town, if not more than that.  Emma might’ve considered moving out of Mary Margaret’s by now if there was a chance of getting a place of her own in Storybrooke that wouldn’t somehow make him her landlord.    
  
Regina always used to say that the only thing as certain as death and taxes was that Gold would collect rent on the first of the month, and she never did say it with the kind of expression that meant that she respected him for it; no, Mr. Gold is one of very few people that Regina seems to not want to wage a war against, and Emma’s avoided him for that very reason.  
  
Of course, ignorance is a two-way street, and tonight, Mr. Gold seems intent on not only sipping his brandy but also starting up a conversation with her.  It starts out casually enough--a gentle inquiry into her new position--and she answers as shortly as possible, so the fact that he persists suggests he _wants_ something from her.  
  
“I have to say,” he finally says, lowering his glass back to the bar and reaching for one of the coasters on it, turning it around in his hand, “I didn’t think you’d still be here, given the demise of your primary reason for being in Storybrooke.”  
  
Emma looks at him from the corner of her eye.  “Why, Mr. Gold--I didn’t think you cared.”  
  
He laughs at that, genuinely, but his voice is sharp when he responds.  “Oh, dearie--about you?  Possibly not, no.  But there is very little that you do that doesn’t somehow affect our dear Mayor Mills, and her, I do care about.”  
  
He’s not a threat, exactly; the guy’s a crippled landlord, for God’s sake, but even so, a chill runs up Emma’s spine at his words.  “What’s that supposed to mean?”  
  
“Let’s just say that she’s...” he says, lifting his hand from the table and fluttering his fingers about, just for a second.  “The competition.  An old rival, of sorts.”  
  
“Is this about the school board?” Emma asks, frowning at him.  
  
Mr. Gold grins at her again, teeth almost shimmering in his mouth.  “What would you say... if I told you that I plan to run for the coveted position she’s held for the last six years?”  
  
Emma finishes the rest of her drink and looks at him plainly.  “I’d say--good luck, pal.  People might think she’s a bitch, but they know she’s a good mayor.”  
  
The way Gold’s mouth stretches into a smug smirk is unsettling.  “Truly, after what she did to you, I thought I could count on the Sheriff Department’s support.”  
  
She’s had enough to drink that the hurt of the off-hand comment won’t show on her face, and so she just sneers at him.  “Given that Graham’s sleeping with her, I highly doubt that _he’d_ vote your way.”  
  
His expression doesn’t change, and she looks away again, before holding up her glass for Ruby to fill it up.  
  
“Perhaps you don’t know the good Sheriff as well as you think you do.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, and watches as Ruby tops her up, handing her a ten before turning back to Mr. Gold.  “I don’t know the good Sheriff at all, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s not going to vote against his … whatever she is.”  
  
Mr. Gold looks at her curiously for a few seconds, and then lightly inclines his head.  “How _do_ you cope with it?  Working with a man who’s apparently taken everything from you.  Doesn’t the urge for revenge eat at you, dearie?”  
  
Emma swirls the liquid in her glass around, and then brings the glass to her lips, taking a slow sip and then putting it back down.  “Maybe it does.  But maybe, there’s bigger things in my life than trying to get even with either of them.”  
  
“Ah,” Mr. Gold says, his voice losing its smarm altogether.  “The boy.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma exhales.  She’s had four drinks and is still no closer to deciding on what to do about Henry and his delusions.  Maybe a fifth drink will bring answers.  “The kid comes first.”  
  
Mr. Gold stays silent for a moment, and then reaches for his cane again.  “I underestimated you, Miss Swan.”  
  
Emma looks at him briefly, raising her eyebrows, but he merely offers her a small smile and a “good night”, and then heads for the door again.  
  
When Ruby walks over, whistling between her teeth with a, “If he didn’t own the building, I’d probably refuse to serve him” that’s more of a whisper than a threat, Emma’s still watching the door swing shut.  
  
Then, she slams back her final drink of the night and hands Ruby the glass.  “Forget about him; close up already, so we can go and get drunk somewhere other than here.”  
  
…  
  
Her phone rings right next to her ear, which is definitely _not_ where she left it.  When she opens an eye, the first thing she sees is Ruby’s coat, draped over her like a cloak, and the next thing is Granny, snoring in a rocking chair like the world’s most ancient log saw.  
  
She reaches up, unintentionally tangling a hand in her hair, but does manage to get at her phone, and then squints at the number before answering it with a hoarse, whispered, “Regina?”  
  
“Where the _hell_ are you, and why aren’t you answering your phone?” is snapped back in her ear, and she sits up a little bit more to make sure that she did in fact crash out on Ruby’s couch and isn’t just having a really messed up dream.  
  
“Uh--the Bed and Breakfast, and this is the first time I heard it ring.”  
  
“What are you--oh, _never mind_ , that doesn’t matter right now.”  
  
“Right now... what the hell time is it, Regina?”  
  
“It’s three in the morning; I … couldn’t sleep, and went to go check on Henry, and he’s not in his room.”  
  
 _That_ wakes her up.  “What do you mean, he’s not in his room?”  
  
“I mean,” Regina says, in an indescribable combination of deadly chill and complete panic, “that my _son_ is missing.  As are his shoes, and his backpack, and that _godforsaken_ book.  I _knew_ I should have taken it away from him long before now, but Dr. Hopper suggested that--”  
  
“Hey,” Emma says, sharply enough for Granny to grunt across the room and shift in the rocking chair she’s nodded off in.  “Take a breath, okay?  He can’t have gone far; he’s ten and on foot.  We’ll find him.  Where are you?”  
  
“I’m … in his room."  
  
“Have you called the Sheriff’s Department?”  
  
“I called _you_ ,” Regina says, forcefully.  “You _are_ a member of the Sheriff’s Department, are you not?”  
  
“Okay,” Emma says, rubbing at her face and wondering how far below the limit a few hours of sleep got her; she feels groggy, maybe sober enough to drive, but the last thing she needs is to get into an accident while trying to find the kid, so she closes her eyes.  “Come and get me, and we’ll look for him.  There’s only a few places he could be; it’s probably the castle, or maybe he snuck out to come and see me--did you two have a fight last night?”  
  
“No.  We had dinner.  I helped him with his history homework, he watched some TV, and then I sent him to bed and... it was just like any other day since you’ve--”  
  
The sentence stops abruptly, and Emma presses her fingers against her temple, counts to three.  Maybe she is finally ready to dwell on all of this, now, but this really isn’t the time.  
  
“All right.  Just come and get me.  We’ll find him, okay?  I promise.”  
  
…  
  
She’s snuck out and is nearly done lacing up her boots outside when the Mercedes pulls up, headlights turned low.  It occurs to her suddenly that this is maybe the sixth time she’s been in Regina’s car; at least four of those times were to and from some of their early sexual get-togethers, when Regina insisted on driving them out of Storybrooke to this lakeside cabin where nobody could see what they were doing.  
  
Her face reddens abruptly at the memories of those early days, but then pales again when she catches a good glimpse of Regina’s appearance; her shirt isn’t tucked in and the buttons aren’t lined up, and her face is fraught with concern and guilt.  She looks, in short, how Emma feels, but that doesn’t make it any less surprising a sight.  
  
They just exchange a silent look before Emma sits down in the passenger seat, buckling up and then glancing both left and right on the road outside the B &B.  “My best bet is that he’s at the castle, but if you have any better ideas...”  
  
Regina nods and reverses without saying anything else; the low moon overhead makes the tear tracks on her face visible, even though she’s been wiping them off from time to time.  Emma tries, a few times, to say whatever it is that Regina needs to hear to not freak out all over again, but it’s hard to be supportive when her own heart is damn near beating out of her chest with worry.  
  
In the end, she just covers Regina’s hand on the gear shift with her own, and Regina lets go of a haggard breath and says, “I keep reminding myself that Storybrooke is one of the safest towns in the state.  Like that _means_ anything.”  
  
Emma tugs her lip between her teeth and peers out the window, at the empty streets and shuttered windows of the stores on Main Street, and then the lit corridors of the hospital and the vacant school building as they pass by.  The clock tower ticks away, somewhere behind them, and Emma reminds herself to keep breathing easily.  
  
The kid is resourceful, too clever for his own good, and she’s taught him enough basic survival skills over the years for him to be okay for a few hours, on his own.  He--  
  
She nearly jumps out of her skin when her phone rings, and then scrambles for it, heart jerking all over again when she sees the department’s number.  “Graham--what is it?  Is it Henry?  Is he--”  
  
“He’s all right,” Graham says, slowly and assuredly, until Emma exhales and then gives Regina a thumbs up, before pointing at her badge and mouthing ‘station’.  
  
“He’s with you?” Emma asks.  
  
“He is.  He came to my house, to--well, perhaps we’d better hold off on that part until you’re here.  I drove him to the station because I wasn’t sure...”  Graham hesitates briefly, and then adds, “I’ll have to call the Mayor after this, and I don’t want that to--”  
  
“Actually, she’s with me, and we’re on our way,” Emma says, glancing at her watch.  “Five minutes, tops.”  
  
“Okay,” Graham says, disconnecting.  
  
Emma pockets her phone again, and focuses on taking a few deep breaths, before looking at Regina and saying, “Does Henry know about you and--”  
  
Regina is far too controlled a driver to abruptly swerve at a question like that, but she does punch the gas for a second and then shoots Emma a disbelieving look.  “He didn’t actually know about  _us_ for nearly three years, Emma.  What on earth makes you think I’d tell him about... a meaningless fling?”  
  
Emma feels her jaw tighten.  “Really?  That’s what you’re calling it?”  
  
Regina’s knuckles whiten around the steering wheel, but her voice is even when she says, “I’m calling it what it was.  I’m not sure why this surprises you; it’s been nearly two months and Graham and I are obviously not--”  
  
“I don’t know, _Regina,_ maybe I’d like to believe that you’d throw away six years over something that you at least _cared_ about--but nothing with you is ever that simple, is it?” Emma spits out, before pointedly staring out the window again.  
  
The car is densely quiet the rest of the short drive, but when Regina pulls up in front of the station, she takes the keys out of the engine but doesn’t otherwise move.  Instead, she takes a deep breath and asks, “Why didn’t you take the deputy job when I told you about it?”  
  
Emma turns to look at her, frowning heavily.  “Is that really something that we need to discuss right now?”  
  
“When _else_ would be a convenient time, Deputy Swan?” Regina fires back.  
  
Emma sighs and looks at the first floor window; she can barely imagine what Henry and Graham are talking about, but the kid is fine, so there’s no way for her to just flee the car without it turning into a huge ordeal.  
  
“I didn’t want... I don’t know,” she finally says, hand straying to the zipper on her coat without her permission.  She fiddles with it for a few moments before finally saying, “Nearly everyone in this town answers to you, professionally, and I’ve seen how it puts a lot of distance between you and people.  I didn’t want you to be my boss.  I didn’t think it would be good for our … relationship.”  
  
When she looks over, she can see Regina’s jaw working, but can’t see her eyes; it’s not enough of her expression to come to any sort of conclusion about what’s going on in her mind, but then Regina turns just enough to look back at her, and she’s stunned into silence by the amount of uncertainty visible in her expression.  
  
“There wasn’t anything else?” Regina asks.  Her voice is unbelievably small, and Emma silently shakes her head, not sure what she’s meant to be doing or saying right now.  
  
Without further explanation, Regina averts her eyes again--but before Emma can ask what the _hell_ conversation they just almost actually had, she’s out the door and heading to the Sheriff’s Department.  
  
It’s like the last five minutes never happened at all, Emma thinks, before hurrying after her.  If not for the fact that she’s wearing what looks to be a pair of cotton slippers--the kind that good hotels provide as a courtesy--and a pair of yoga pants, she’d look exactly like the Madam Mayor that graced campaign posters all over town three years ago.


	6. Chapter 6

Emma only catches up when Regina’s already by Graham’s office, sinking to her knees and pulling the kid into a hug.  It’s for the best that she’s holding him so close she can’t see him as she unconvincingly admonishes him, because Henry basically recoils at her first touch, before twisting until he can look at Graham accusingly.  
  
“I told you to call _Emma_ ,” he says, squirming away from Regina all the way.  
  
Regina’s shoulders hitch visibly even from halfway across the room, as Emma moves to stand behind her and clears her throat.  “And he did.  We’re all here.  Why are _you_ not in bed?”  
  
Henry’s eyes saucer in her general direction, and then he takes a step back, brushing up against Graham’s waist.  “You … did you bring her?”  
  
The order of events here isn’t really the point; the broken, “ _Henry_ ” that escapes from Regina captures it appropriately.  At Emma's nod, Henry’s face flushes abruptly and he turns to push at Graham’s side.  “Please, Sheriff, you have to _go_.”   
  
Graham looks baffled, but doesn’t budge.  Emma briefly considers firing her service weapon just to get everyone’s attention, but settles for whistling on two of her fingers, _hard_ , until they all look at her.  
  
“Okay.  I really don’t want to be here right now.  I want to be in bed, where we _all_ should be,” she says, pinning Henry with a stern look.  “You need to give us an explanation, kid, and _then_ you need to apologize to your mom for the way you’ve been acting, because it is _not_ okay.”  
  
Regina gets back to her feet and leans against Emma’s desk, crossing her legs at the ankle with an air of composure that isn’t really persuasive to people who know her.  Emma can’t help but briefly wonder if that’s also clear to Graham, before raising an eyebrow at Henry.  
  
“She’s _not_ my mother,” the kid retorts.  “She’s the Evil Queen.”  
  
For one second, Emma thinks she might actually step forward, pull him up by his neck, and throttle him, but it passes when she sees the way that Henry is shaking.  He’s not getting any joy out of the crap that is running through his mind, at which point, they have a far bigger problem than that he’s got an attitude that needs adjusting.  
  
She runs a hand through her hair and looks at Graham.  “Okay--can you shed some light on what the hell is going on here?”  
  
Graham puts a hand on Henry’s shoulder--which only makes his trembling more visible--and then slowly says, “Henry showed up at my apartment, to warn me.  He seems to think that … I’m in grave danger.”  
  
“Danger of _what_?” Emma asks, even though she figures she already knows.  
  
As Graham sort of helplessly shrugs, Regina lowers her head and inhales through her nose. “Losing his heart, of course,” she says.  
  
“ _See?_ ” Henry declares; the energy that was keeping him upright seems to drain from him all at once, and he slumps against Graham, face turning very pale after a few moments.  “She knows.  The only way she’d know is if it was _true_.”  
  
Emma can’t help sighing and shaking her head, but then steps in closer to Regina’s side, lowering her voice.  “What story are you thinking of?”  
  
“I suspect it’s _The Huntsman_ ,” Regina says, with an air of resignation that really doesn’t become her.  “The Evil Queen sends the Huntsman on a mission to kill Snow White, but he can’t do it because she’s clean and pure, so she punishes him by stealing his heart.  She keeps it in a box, I believe, and controls him for the rest of his life.”  
  
Emma feels her face go slack.  “What the hell kind of children’s stories _are_ these?  I’m going to kill Mary Margaret for ever--”  
  
“They’re not stories, they’re _true_ ,” Henry cuts in.  
  
Emma feels her shoulders slump and looks at Graham for some sort of help here.  “Okay, can you just—maybe give us a hand here?”  
  
“Of course,” he says, plainly.   
  
It’s unfortunate, his willingness to cooperate, because it makes it sound a little like Regina _does_ have him in some sort of emotional stranglehold.  Not that that makes the heart-in-a-box crap any less outrageous, but …  
  
“Henry here thinks that Regina is going to steal your heart so she can keep it in a box and then just snap her fingers to make you do her bidding.”  
  
Graham’s sharp look to Regina is even _less_ helpful than his initial compliance, but it thankfully goes over Henry’s head in a very literal sense.  “That’s... how would she get my heart?”  
  
“She’s just going to pull it out of your chest.  When you’re close to her,” Henry says, in a shaky voice that betrays just how deep his belief runs.  
  
Regina is no longer just a character in a story who’s gone off the deep end; no, he’s actually afraid of her outside of the book, now.  Emma knows, without looking, that Regina can feel it, too; the oddest mixture of sympathy and regret settles low in her stomach as Henry’s twitchy eyes flit between them.  
  
Graham rubs at his chin for a few seconds, and then says, “Henry--I’ve known your mother since before you were born.  She’s been my... friend for a very long time.  If she wanted to do something to hurt me, she has had every opportunity, but never once has she acted on it.”  
  
Henry blinks furiously a few times, his small, sickly-white face now fixated on where Regina is staring at the floor.  “But she will.  The book says--”  
  
“Kid,” Emma says, pleadingly.  Henry looks at her, and after a second of hesitation--maybe it’s pathetic, but she doesn’t really want to move too far away from Regina right now--she, too, gets on her knees in front of him, reaching for his shoulder and squeezing it softly.  “What is this _really_ about?  You know your mom doesn’t have a collection of hearts; you know she’d never do anything to hurt Graham, or _you_ \--”  
  
“But she hurt _you_ ,” Henry says, his hands balling up into frustrated little fists.  “She hurt you and now you’re gone.  It’s what she always does, Emma.  It’s what she did with my dad--”  
  
“Enough,” Regina says, quietly but with enough force for Henry to fall silent; it’s the first positive side effect of his abject terror that Emma has seen tonight, mostly because it saves her from responding.  “Graham, thank you for your intervention, but this is a … family matter, and we will deal with it at home.”  
  
Emma glances over her shoulder; the dark and foreboding expression on Regina’s face is enough to make her glance away, and when she does, she sees Henry, desperately trying to look brave, somehow.  She fights both the urge to roll her eyes and to hug him close, and settles for leaning forward, whispering, “I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”  
  
“I know that,” Henry whispers back, but his eyes stay trained on Regina--like what he’s really saying is that it’s not his own safety that, ultimately, he’s worried about.  
  
…  
  
“Okay, kid--bed.   _Now_ ,” Emma says, as soon as the front door closes behind them.  She gives Henry a small shove in the shoulder for emphasis, and raises her eyebrows and shakes her head when he’s about to protest.  “We’ll talk later.”  
  
One look at Regina is enough to get him moving up the stairs, though, and as he goes, Emma tugs off her jacket and--unthinkingly--hands it to Regina, who accepts it with only mild hesitation before hanging it up on the coat rack next to Henry’s.    
  
Emma shoves her hands in her back pockets as Regina leads the way into the sitting room, going straight for the mini bar and pouring them both a drink.  Out of habit, Emma glances over her shoulder to make sure her jeans are clean--the night itself is still kind of a blur, even if she’s definitely sober by now--and then gingerly sits down on a space on the couch that she once thought of as sort of _hers,_ too.  
  
A tumbler is deposited in her hand a moment later, but Regina wanders over to the windows at the far side of the room and leans against the wall there, taking a long drink before silently looking out over her yard--mangled apple tree front and center.  
  
“What do we do, Regina?” Emma finally asks, a few swallows later.  
  
It’s four am, and the mild headache of a hangover is starting to make itself known; she’s chasing it off with more alcohol, but that’s not really doing anything for her temper.  The exhaustion of a month of sleeping poorly and dreaming only about shit she can’t change is catching up to her, and when Regina just sighs, a defeated, “I don’t know” her only contribution, Emma knows that she's hit her limit.  
  
So much for the civil conversation she hoped they could have about it; the magical, wonderful explanation that could make the presence of a man in their bed something she could just move _past_.  
  
“Not knowing,” she says, warningly, “isn’t really an option.  The kid’s clearly spiralling completely out of control; he looks at you like you’re a fucking _serial killer,_ some living nightmare from a horror story.  And yeah, maybe this time, he only ran to warn Graham, but what about next time?  What if he just runs _off_ , huh?”  
  
Regina doesn’t immediately respond, and Emma knows that they’re both gearing up for a throw-down when she merely finishes her drink and very carefully places it on the sill, before turning back to look at Emma.  
  
“Believe it or not, this is a little out of the realm of my experiences in parenting,” she then says, not half as sarcastically as she could.  “I don’t exactly take pleasure in the fact that my son flinches when I touch him; that he would do just about anything to get away from me.  If you have any bright ideas for a solution--”  
  
“Oh, I have bright ideas,” Emma says, slamming her half-empty drink down on the coffee table loud enough for the glass to sing.  “Here’s one: how about we go back in time, and you don’t fuck the sheriff, so we can go back to having a happy, well-adjusted kid in the house we both live in and--”  
  
Regina’s eyes darken in a way that might’ve indicated arousal, if the circumstances were any different.  “The real world doesn’t come with take-backs, dear.  No matter what I might wish for--”  
  
“ _Wish_ for?” Emma repeats, astonished.  “You think _you’re_ wishing for things?  I wish that... I’d never _slept_ with you.  Or wait, no, I don’t--maybe I’d keep that part, because the sex is the only thing between us that’s _ever_ been easy, isn’t it?”  She shakes her head.  “So maybe, I only wish that I’d never moved to this claustrophobic, gossipy shit town so that I could’ve spent more time with you; I definitely wish I’d never given up my job because you asked me to, because _boy_ , you sure found one hell of a way to repay me--”  
  
“And _I wish_ ,” Regina says, sharply enough for Emma to swallow the rest of her sentence on instinct, “that you had actually done _any_ of those things for _me_ , Miss Swan.  So, yes.  I’d say that there are more than enough wishes to go around, here.”  
  
Emma shoots up off the chair and walks a few steps closer, before sticking her hands in her side and watching as Regina swallows, but doesn’t budge.  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?  Why would I have come to Storybrooke if not--”  
  
She falls silent when Regina’s eyes gazes out towards the foyer, and the staircase there; her eyes slowly tracking up the steps until it’s clear where she’s looking.  
  
Emma feels some of the fight leave her, and sits down on the arm of the sofa closest to her, just a few feet away from Regina.  “You have _got_ to be kidding me.”  
  
The stark stillness of Regina’s face as her eyes meet Emma’s again is somehow worse than the visible grief that marred it two months ago, when she walked out.  “Do you recall the conversation we had that led to you renting a room at Miss Blanchard’s the first time around?”  
  
The impulse to say, “ _No_ ” is there, because it’s some ungodly hour and revisiting a five-years-old conversation won't fix Henry, but even through the faint haze of hangover, Emma has to admit that she does.  “Yeah--we talked about how it would be easier for all of us if I made Storybrooke my base of operations and--”  
  
…  
  
 _It’s one of those afternoons where she wishes she enjoyed smoking; they say it’s particularly satisfying after breakfast and after sex, and her body doesn’t even really feel like it’s attached to her brain right now.  The only thing that makes her feel present is the faint sting of a few scratch marks on her upper back._  
  
 _Rolling a shoulder and then falling onto her back, she hisses.  “Damn, lady, you really know how to make sure I remember where you live.”_  
  
 _“It’s been a year, Miss Swan;  I highly doubt you need reminding,” Regina says, her voice a little rougher and lower than it normally is; she shifts onto her side, propping her head up on an elbow until the sheet tumbles off her shoulder and--_  
  
 _Yep.  Boobs._  
  
 _Regina flicks her on the chin and she forces her eyes up again, languid smile pretty much unstoppable--at least, until she remember Regina’s words, and then just blinks a few times.  “A year?  Seriously?”_  
  
 _“Mm,” Regina says, tracing a shape on the bedding.  Emma can’t quite figure out what it is, but it’s something that resembles a horseshoe.  “You destroyed the town sign twelve months and ten days ago.”_  
  
 _Emma snorts at the exact figure, but it’s hardly surprising; Regina’s a stickler for a schedule, and probably has more dates and times stuck in her head than the average Moleskine planner does in print.  “And look where we are now,” she says, letting her lips curl a little bit more.  “Lucky accident, huh?”_  
  
 _Regina stays quiet for a few more seconds, and Emma reaches over the bed for her shirt, turning it the right side out before she remembers that, right, the kid will be home from kindergarten soon, and she should probably put on a bra._  
  
 _Henry’s a sweetheart; he doesn’t have his mother’s imposing personality in the slightest, and she figures he takes after his dad, but that’s not really a topic they’ve broached.  Whatever he is, absent or something worse than that, he’s not in the picture.  That’s all Emma really needs to know to be comfortable with what they’re doing--or what they did, for the last two hours, anyway._  
  
 _As she’s trying to clip her bra behind her back without looking, she feels Regina’s hand on her back, sliding up and snapping it shut in one go.  “Thanks,” she murmurs, and then looks over her shoulder.  “Hey, do you want to go to that diner tonight?  Best burgers I’ve had on pretty much the whole east coast.  I was planning on grabbing one before heading out anyway, but maybe we should just all go; we can treat the kid to a shake or something.  Do you think he’d like that?”_  
  
 _Regina looks back at her impassively, and then says, “Best burger on the east coast, hm?”_  
  
 _“I can’t say I’ve tried them all--” Emma says._  
  
 _Regina’s smile is a little unreadable when she responds with, “But it must be close.  Five years of being a bondsman, now?”_  
  
 _“Yeah, nearly,” Emma confirms, buttoning up her shirt and then reaching for her jeans.  She’s wriggling into them when Regina clears her throat._  
  
 _“With the number of times you pass through Storybrooke each year, one might think it’s a more central location from which you could... conduct your manhunts.”_  
  
 _Emma’s fingers still on the zipper of her jeans; she knows her entire body tensed up, but what they’re having is definitely not a continuance of pillow talk, or the more business-like post-orgasm chat they tend to have about when their schedules next line up.  The urge to change the subject is overwhelming, at least until Regina says, not without amusement, “Try to breathe, Miss Swan.  It would be really unfortunate if you fainted before I could tell you that I’m not proposing we change anything about this arrangement.”_  
  
 _“You’re... asking me to move here,” Emma says, not turning around.  “That sounds a_ lot _like changing the arrangement, Regina.”_  
  
 _They’re both silent for a few incredibly awkward moments--and it’s funny, the sleepy relaxation in her body has been chased off so fast that Emma’s more frustrated now than she was before arriving in Storybrooke, after a good three weeks out on the road--and then Regina says, “I don’t expect you to understand this, but while I am perfectly comfortable with the way things are, they are nearly impossible to explain to my son.”_  
  
 _Emma does turn at that and frowns.  “Why would he need to know anything?”_  
  
 _“About the woman who occasionally stops by in town, and spends some time with us before leaving again?” Regina asks, arching her right eyebrow smoothly.  “And before you suggest I call you a friend, I’m sure you’ve not failed to notice that I have fewer of those in Storybrooke than_ you _do.”_  
  
 _The unsubtle reminder that Regina doesn’t approve of the girls that Emma sometimes goes out for a drink with--one of them a waitress in the diner, the other one an elementary school teacher who gave her a ride to the bed & breakfast and showed her around town when she first got stranded in Storybrooke--is enough to make her roll her eyes, but then Regina’s also being honest and … _  
  
_She sort of starts to smirk a little, the longer Regina pretends not to be waiting for an answer.  “So what do you want to tell him?”_  
  
 _“That we’re … close,” Regina says, in a tone of voice that makes Emma wish she hadn’t already pulled her pants up.  Not that they can’t come off again, but still.  Regina’s expression goes a little distant when she adds, “I’m the only parent he’s ever known, so there’s no chance that he’ll confuse you for something you’re not.”_  
  
 _Emma studies Regina for a few moments longer, and then says, “Yeah, okay.  There’s nothing waiting for me in Boston anyway, it’ll cut back on my mileage, and I don’t want to screw up the kid or mess up your relationship with him.  Not to mention--”_  
  
 _“What?” Regina asks, at the look on her face._  
  
 _Some things are better explained by example, and so Emma shimmies back out of her jeans and onto the mattress, hovering over Regina for a few seconds and watching her eyes darken slightly just from their positioning.  “I wouldn’t say no to getting laid more regularly than I have been.”_  
  
 _Regina’s exasperated, “_ Really _, Miss Swan” is muffled into a kiss, and if they both end up laughing a little before Regina’s fingers slip between the buttons on Emma’s shirt again, it’s another one of many things that they’ll probably never actually talk about._  
  
 _Talking really just isn’t their strong suit._  
  
 _…_  
  
She looks back up at Regina and says, “That was--oh, come on, Regina. I was twenty three years old and you were just... this...”  
  
She hesitates before she actually ends up calling Regina a MILF; not only is the acronym something she’d have to explain, but any explanation would probably also end with her getting her ass booted out of the house.  
  
“When I asked you to move into the house, your response was, roughly, that it would help you save some money in rent and that it would give you more opportunities to spend time with Henry, so why not?” Regina says, flatly.  “When I asked you to consider a domestic partnership, you hyperventilated until I indicated that it would make a second parent adoption _simpler_.  When I asked you to quit your job--”  
  
Emma digs her nails into her legs, through her jeans, and then shakes her head.  “No, you know what?  You _don’t_ get to do this to me.  None of that excuses you fucking Graham... in _our_ bed.  A bed that I helped pick _out_ with you, Regina.”  
  
“Yes,” Regina says, almost like a bitter sigh.  “You always were an eager participant in any part of our supposed relationship that directly related to your _sex life_.”  
  
Emma feels her eyes narrow as she looks back up, but Regina’s expression is as tight; she knows, seeing a vein pulse in Regina’s neck, that neither of them are going to back down easily at this point.    
  
“I have been _trying,_ for years now, and you threw my efforts back in my face.  I mean, I’m here now, aren’t I?  I did everything you asked me to do--”  
  
“And what if I _hadn’t?_ ” Regina snaps. “Where would you be if I hadn’t pressured you?  If I hadn’t used your attachment to _Henry_ as a lever to get you to commit to a life here in even the smallest of ways?  Are you honestly going to pretend that you wouldn’t just be hopping from town to town, a different lover each night, with--”  
  
“ _What?_ ”  
  
Regina’s mouth sets angrily.  “We both know what kind of lifestyle you prefer living.”  
  
“Yeah, maybe I _like_ being able to live out of a suitcase, but Jesus, Regina, I haven’t been with _anyone_ since the first time I was with you,” Emma blurts out, her voice shakier than she likes.  
  
Regina’s entire body locks up at that statement, and then she steps in front of Emma, staring her down deliberately.  “You’re lying,” she hisses, but it lacks conviction; it seems to be her begging for confirmation more than stating a fact.  
  
“Why would I lie?” Emma says, tipping her head back just enough to look at Regina’s face.  
  
Maybe it’s the lighting in the sitting room, but for maybe the first time, she’s seeing the aftermath of the last months on Regina’s face.  There are lines by her mouth that weren’t there before, and carefully hidden bags under her eyes that now weakly shine through a delicate layer of concealer.  More than anything, though, it’s in her eyes.    
  
It’s like she’s desperate to believe, but has no idea _how_ to.  
  
Unwillingly, Emma thinks of Henry and his curse. She folds her hands in her lap and repeats, “Why would I lie about that _now_?”  
  
Regina looks away, over her head, a wave of shame and regret passing over her expression; a whispered, “all this time” slips from her lips, and then she just covers her mouth with one of her hands.  
  
“Why did you do it, Regina?” Emma asks, after a few moments of watching; it comes with a grudging acceptance that Mary Margaret was right--that if Regina’s reasons are even halfway coherent, she’ll probably get over it.    
  
It wasn’t any different the very first time they kissed, abruptly crossing the thin line that separates hate from a whole lot more.  Regina’s had her walking that line like a tightrope from the moment they met, but between kissing and killing, kissing has _always_ won out.  
  
Regina breathes audibly, and then closes her eyes.  “Because... even if you didn't want to be here, you would've never left Henry. Not unless...”  
  
It’s not an answer that makes any real sense, but when Regina’s eyes open again and look at her, almost obviously apologetic, Emma feels like she sort of understands anyway.  
  
She’s acutely exhausted, and rubs at her forehead before deciding that she’s definitely had enough for one night.  A wry observation should let Regina know as much, and so she sighs.  “Should’ve really tried this whole _words_ thing sooner, huh.”  
  
Regina’s mouth twitches into something that wants to be a smile, but can’t quite get there.  “Yes.  About more than--”  
  
“I know,” Emma says, pushing off the couch and wandering over to her glass, pounding back the rest of it and then putting it down on a coaster.  “Look...  I’m gonna just... I really need some sleep, and we need to figure out what to do about Henry.”  
  
She’s already one foot in the foyer when she stops, and then stumbles forward when Regina bumps into her; an arm around her waist steadies her, and she leans into it a little gratefully, but then turns to look at Regina over her shoulder.  
  
“There is obviously no _curse_ for us to break,” she then says, her eyes flitting to Regina’s lips almost unwillingly.  “But Archie seems to think that if I just go along with him long enough to get the whole story, I might be able to talk some sense into him.”  
  
Regina’s arm falls away immediately.  “I see,” she says, expression carefully closed off again.  “Well.  If that’s what Dr. Hopper suggests...”  
  
“Not sure I buy it either, but I don’t think we have anything better to go with,” Emma says, turning to grab her jacket off the coat rack, and shrugging into it without looking away from Regina.  “I guess I’ll come back tomorrow and sit down with him.”  
  
Regina just nods, and after a second, Emma tugs up her zipper and tries for a smile; it comes out a little bit like a grimace, but all in all, it _feels_ right.  
  
“Let me know if he makes another break for it.  I don’t think he will, but--”  
  
“You’ll be the first to know, Deputy Swan,” Regina says, before pulling the front door open for her with a subtle flourish.  “Walk safe.”  
  
…  
  
It’s not until she gets back home that she realizes that she almost forgot that she’s still pretty furious with Regina, and that nothing really got resolved at all, because the real world isn’t some ridiculous story where one single moment of understanding can undo a world of hurt--but, hell.  
  
Even if nothing’s that easy, it still feels like they’re at least going _somewhere,_ now.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s almost noon by the time she wakes up a second time--the first time having lasted just long enough for her to text in sick.  She stumbles downstairs and groggily heads for the coffee maker before realizing that, shit, it’s still broken.  
  
“There’s still hot water; I can make some tea,” Mary Margaret offers, and Emma nods before sitting down at the breakfast counter and rubbing her hands over her face.  “I don’t think I heard you come in--were you...”  
  
“I crashed at Ruby’s,” Emma says, squinting at the fruit bowl and finally opting for absolutely nothing for breakfast.  “Henry kind of... ran away from home last night, so I helped Regina find him, and then I just came back here.”  
  
Mary Margaret turns in shock, and Emma shakes her head before a barrage of questions can come.  
  
“He’s fine.  I’m heading back there later to talk to him.”  
  
“With... Regina present?” Mary Margaret carefully asks.   The apron she’s wearing is covered with elaborate bird prints, and Emma smiles faintly when she spots a swan.  
  
“Yeah,” she says, grabby-handing for the mug that Mary Margaret walks over.  Tea isn’t really going to wake her up, but there’s something comforting about it; like it’s the kind of thing that people drink with family, rather than just to keep their eyes open.  She blows on the hot liquid for a few seconds and then sighs when Mary Margaret is still looking at her questioningly.  “We kind of... had the start of a conversation last night.   _Maybe_.”  
  
“About why...”  
  
“Not... well, yeah.  I guess.  I don’t know.”  Emma rubs at her lips--they feel chapped and sore--and then fishes the tea bag out of the mug, depositing it onto a plate with some cooling brownies on it, before stealing one of those as a breakfast snack.    
  
She knows that Mary Margaret wants to know more, but she’s not really sure what to say.  The idea of calling Regina Mills _insecure_ about anything is kind of preposterous, but that’s really what she got out of the half-truths they exchanged last night.  Somewhere along the way, she convinced Regina that all she really cared about was Henry.  
  
And the sex.  
  
That’s awkward enough for her cheeks to pink up with Mary Margaret still looking at her, and so she clears her throat and says, “I think there’s a lot of stuff that we probably should’ve said to each other years ago, but it just never really happened.  I mean, she went from a one night stand to … someone I lived with, and we never really talked about _why_ , you know?”  
  
Mary Margaret gives her a sympathetic smile, before chuckling softly.  “I'm not really surprised. I know you still haven’t forgiven me for throwing you a wedding party--”  
  
“Never,” Emma says, grimly.  When Mary Margaret chuckles again, she picks up the mug and taking a careful sip; the tea stings her tongue and lips in equal measure, but she finds she doesn’t mind.  “Seriously, what did I ever do to you?  You know that I hate that kind of crap--with everyone staring at me.  Or were you just trying to get at Regina?  Because, let me tell you, much as you don’t get along, I don’t think she’d ever do anything _that_ cruel to you.”  
  
Mary Margaret looks at her with some surprise.  “Trying to get at Regina?  What do you mean?”  
  
“Just that... she’s not really the sentimental type either, so a huge reception was a great way to torture both of us.”  Emma smiles faintly, after a moment.  “I don’t know which one of us was more pissed off at having to make a speech, though--she’s the mayor, so you probably couldn’t tell.”  
  
Mary Margaret sits down across from her, a frown slowly forming between her eyes.  “Wait--you’re being serious?”  
  
Emma blinks and drinks some more tea, before carefully asking, “Should I not be?”  
  
Mary Margaret looks at the table for a long moment and then says, “Hang on”, before slipping off the stool again and padding over to her bedroom on a pair of toe socks.  Emma shakes her head a little but continues sipping on her tea, before almost spilling it all over her shirt when Mary Margaret deposits her laptop in front of her.  
  
She almost gets shifted off her chair altogether when Mary Margaret leans over her shoulder and starts flicking through her bookmarks, clicking on the Mirror and then tapping in a few quick search terms; she’s so fast about it that all Emma catches is “wedding” and “2000” before the page whites out, search in progress.  
  
“What are we doing?” she asks, as Mary Margaret chews on her lip and mutters, “c’mon” at the page.  
  
She doesn’t get a response; just Mary Margaret scrolling down the page before finally going, “ _There_ ” and clicking on a link that reads, _Golden Straw Stables_ _Transformed For Wedding Festivities_.  
  
A sinking feeling washes over Emma.  “Uh--I think I know where this is going, and I’m not really sure that--”  
  
“You’ve had years to find all of this out, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, with a little more force than Emma is used to from her.  “I think you’re a little overdue.”  
  
Emma shuts up, and watches as a newspaper article--written by Sidney Glass--slowly filters onto the page.  The text, she doesn’t really care about; it’s the pictures, particularly the ones of Regina and … some guy, both on horses.  They look disgustingly joyful.  
  
It’s actually a little hard to see, given that she knows how it ended.  
  
“I wasn’t invited; not that I could’ve gone anyway, I was at college when they got married,” Mary Margaret says, sitting down next to Emma and looking at the pictures as they scroll by.  
  
There’s Regina and Daniel kissing next to a cake, followed by Regina and her mother, posing stiffly by some sort of decorative arch.  In all the pictures, Regina’s smiling, and not in the way she does these days.  After a few more, Emma has to stop and look away.  
  
Mary Margaret takes a deep breath.  “But, my father was on the guest list; he used to play golf with her father.  You know how all the older businessmen in town know each other.”  She’s quiet for a few seconds, and then smiles faintly.  “He told me it was quite the spectacle.  Granny was in charge of preparing an ice sculpture for the reception that was the size of … well, _Henry_ , for lack of a better comparison, and it took Leroy the better part of a week to string the lights that lit up the stable they exchanged their vows in.”  
  
“Yeah, I get it,” Emma says, closing the laptop lid before she can look at more of those pictures.  “A huge wedding, with one hell of a happy bride.”  
  
“I don’t necessarily think it was the grandeur of it all that she loved, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, pursing her lips.  “That was more... her mother’s style.  But the getting married part, in front of everyone she cared for?”  
  
Emma finishes her tea and puts the mug down next to the laptop, staring at it for a few more moments and then shrugging off the chair.  “A lot of time has passed since then, and trust me, she didn't want anything like that with me.”  
  
“My point was that--”  
  
“I know what your point was--and I’m not buying, okay?” Emma says, before trudging back up the stairs and taking an incredibly long, hot shower.  
  
...  
  
The shower doesn’t really help her forget the pictures, though, and she wonders how many times a young Henry has seen them.  
  
Daniel has been exorcised from the Mills house by now, and Emma honestly has no idea how she’s _never_ asked why that is; why there aren’t any pictures of him up, or weren’t any pictures that were slowly replaced with newer family portraits, anyway.  If she hadn’t _known_ Regina was married when she had Henry, she would’ve never guessed.  
  
There’s also something really screwed up about how she’s been part of the scenery in Storybrooke for five years now, but nobody’s ever told her about any of this before now.  Sure, she didn’t ask, but... it’s almost as if the entire town has spared her the truth about what Regina’s life _before_ was like.  Like the only stories to be told are ones about how, once upon a time, Regina was _happy_.  
  
She’s heading to the Sheriff’s Department when a gust of wind blasts down Main Street and brings tears to her eyes, and it’s a relief, to be able to wipe at them.  Of course, as she’s tugging her scarf up to blot at her face, she runs directly into someone, and--  
  
“Emma?  Are you okay?” David asks.  
  
She mumbles that she’s fine, but he’s the kind of guy who wouldn’t let a crying woman walk anywhere on her own, and so he just sort of ducks his head until he can look at her, and she _knows_ she’s looking shaky--even before she can see concern bloom on his face.    
  
His hands reach for her shoulders. “You don’t look fine.”  
  
She brushes his hands away and shakes her head.  “I’m going to work, I need to--”  The lump in her throat stops her from saying more; really, all she can do is pathetically sniffle and let the cold bite at her face while David’s eyes soften in front of her.  
  
“One of those days, huh?”  
  
“More like one of those lives,” she says, with another unintentional sniffle.  
  
He gives her a small smile and says, “I might have something that helps, if you can keep a secret.”  
  
Emma shoves her hands back in her pockets and rocks back on her heels for a second, before sighing at the earnest look on his face.  “If this secret belongs to a guy named Jack Daniels and comes in a forty--”  
  
David’s smile grows a little, but then he reaches for her hand.  “We’ll call that step two, if step one doesn’t help.  Okay?”  
  
She has no idea why she lets him drag her along, really, except that he’s _nice_ and not all up in her business the way Mary Margaret is, which means that no matter what dumb thing she’s about to get dragged off to do, it’s unlikely to make her day any worse.  
  
…  
  
He laughs at her when she sulks at the puppy on her lap.  
  
“This isn’t really... my thing,” she tries, as he pulls over a mid-sized dog carrier and straddles it to sit across from her.    
  
The puppy squirms in her arms and then sniffs at her neck, and with a sigh she sinks back into the desk chair that David pulled out for her earlier.  Maybe this is one of those things that’s easier to just... let happen.  
  
“Do you want to talk about it?” David offers, after a few moments of watching her let the puppy crawl all over her lap.  She thinks it might be some sort  of lab cross, but whatever it is, it’s enthusiastic and high energy, and kind of reminds her of Henry.    
  
When the puppy almost tips over backwards in an attempt to scramble up  her chest, it reminds her _too_ much of Henry; too inquisitive for its own good.  
  
She hugs it in closer just to keep it alive and then glances at David.  “Not really.”  
  
He nods, and then gestures at the puppy.  “Her mother died.  It was a complicated birth, and I wasn’t sure if she was going to make it, but we stuck in there and she’s going to be ready for adoption in just a few weeks time.”  
  
“Half-price, right?” Emma asks, with a small smirk.  “In the weeks leading up to Christmas?”  
  
David looks a little embarrassed as he nods, and then tilts his head.  “Maybe Henry--”  
  
Emma laughs, without meaning to.  “Uh, you have _met_ his mother, right?”  
  
David grins in kind.  “I have.  It was a long shot.”  
  
Emma scritches the puppy under its chin, and as her fingers get snuffled, she adds, “I can’t really picture Regina with a pet.  Well, trying to train one, maybe, but keeping one?  That’s just...”  
  
David chuckles softly.  “I think she likes horses--Kathryn says they used to take riding lessons together, in their teens.”  
  
"Yeah, I guess,” Emma says, lowering the puppy back to the ground and then brushing some of its fur off her jeans.  “I mean, you don’t get married on a horse if you’re not really into them.”  
  
A cat meows shrilly several cages over and David leans to look at it quickly, extending his fingers through the bars to give it a quick pet.  “Her first wedding?”  
  
“Apparently,” Emma mutters.  The puppy has found a buckle on her left boot and is chewing on it; she doesn’t really have the heart to get it off, so she just extends her foot to give it more room.  
  
“It’s weird, not being born in Storybrooke, isn’t it,” David muses, as the cat gives him a small lick and then prances out of sight again.  “I mean, I’ve lived here for a few years longer than you have, but I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling like an outsider.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma agrees, with a small sigh.  “Mid-sized or not, this town sure likes acting small.”  
  
David is quiet for a few seconds, and then looks at her askance.  “Kathryn and I weren’t serious.”  
  
“I’m sorry, what?”  
  
“Our relationship--it wasn’t serious.  I was taking part-time classes at a veterinary college, when she was in her final year of law school, and we met at a party.  Mutual friends thought we’d hit it off, and we did--we like the same sports, the same food.  It’s--I don’t know.  One thing just kind of led to another, you know?”  
  
He trails off, looking a little sheepish.  
  
“I kind of figured that you two, you know, have had _sex_ , don't worry,” Emma says, dryly.  
  
David blushes violently at that and then looks back at the puppy, and after a second, picks it up and scratches behind its ears.  “I think we both knew that while we had fun together, it wasn’t going to last.  Maybe it felt like it could’ve become more at the time, but...”  He swallows visibly as he stares at the empty cage that the puppy would normally occupy.  “I’m convinced we would’ve broken up when she graduated.  But then, she got pregnant.”    
  
Emma feels her eyes widen and clears her throat, hiding an unexpected cough in her fist, “David, you really don’t have to--”  
  
“No, I do,” he says, running his fingertips through the puppy’s fur, before looking at Emma again, his eyes a little shiny now.  “I know... you don’t like me, Emma.  You’ve never said anything, but I know all the same, and I don’t like it.  It’s not just because you’re Mary Margaret’s roommate.  I actually feel like _we_ could be friends, maybe, but--”  
  
“Okay, I get it,” Emma asks, mostly to stop him fumbling; definitely not because she wants to know more.  It’s been easy, so far, to tell Mary Margaret that she deserves more, deserves better--but if David keeps talking, he won’t stay a one-dimensional bad guy that’s screwing Mary Margaret around.  She’s really not sure how she feels about the prospect, but looking at his face, she motions for him to continue.  “What happened?”  
  
“Well... I did the right thing. She was my best friend; I wasn’t going to make her deal with... any of that alone.  So I proposed, and she said yes.”  He wipes at his eyes with the end of his sleeve, and then says, “She miscarried, in her sixth month.  After, we moved back here, so she could be closer to her family.  It wasn’t easy, but we had each other and we got through it.  And then, one day, I went to the drugstore on Fifth to pick up some first aid stuff, and...”  
  
There’s something inherently wondrous about the way his entire face changes as he takes a deep breath and then looks at Emma again.  
  
“That’s when I met Mary Margaret.  She’d just moved back here, after getting her teaching degree.  She had hay fever; her eyes were runny and her nose was swollen, and when she smiled, I just... I felt something that I had no business feeling.”  
  
Emma’s throat tightens up without her permission, and then David releases the puppy and exhales slowly, watching it scamper away.  
  
“I avoided her.  For years, I just refused to see her as anything more than that girl at the drugstore.  It wasn’t too hard; as you say, Storybrooke just acts small.  A few looks when we bumped into each other at the grocery store never turned into anything.  And then--”  
  
“She found that wounded bird, the one that had flown into her classroom window,” Emma finishes, quietly.  “I know.  She called me about it, later that night.  Said that--this gorgeous guy who she’d seen around before worked part-time at the local vet and animal shelter, and that they had this great conversation, and that she’d invited him to have coffee with her.”  
  
“I said yes,” David admits.  “I went because I wanted her to _not_ be someone special.  I hoped that... if we just had coffee together, I would realize she was just like any other woman I’ve ever met, and I would be able to go back home and have dinner with Kathryn and just... keep on living my life, the way I always have.”  
  
Emma smiles unwillingly.  “And then she wasn’t.”  
  
“No, she wasn’t,” David agrees, heavily, before finally looking up at her again.  “I don’t want to hurt Kathryn.  I never have.  I won’t.  All I can do is... what I have been doing.  I know it’s not a solution, but I don’t know how to fix this.”  
  
The puppy yelps at one of the cats, and they both shoot up at its plaintive little noise, before settling again; Emma feels her heart stutter in her chest all the same, and then looks at David, who is now just silently studying her.  
  
“I still say that what you’re doing is bullshit,” Emma finally says.  
  
David’s lips thin briefly, but then he laughs and scratches his cheek.  “Well.  I guess I was asking for that.”  
  
“No, I mean--” Emma says, and then sighs.  “Look, I know she’s my friend, but forget Mary Margaret; you don’t owe her anything.  But the woman you’ve been married to for almost _ten years_ has a right to know that … that she’s not what you really want.”  
  
David lowers his eyes, and Emma feels her stomach twist uncomfortably.  
  
“You can’t just... let someone think that they’re in a happy relationship, when it’s not working on any level.  Kathryn has the right to choose if she wants to be with someone who--”  
  
The wave of nausea that climbs up her chest is acute, and she presses her fist into her stomach to stop it from getting all the way up, but David leans forward and says, “Hey--are you okay?”  
  
She swallows it back down, clamping her lips together until it passes, and then says, “Nobody _wants_ to be with someone who would rather be with someone else.”  
  
“It’s not that simple, Emma--”  
  
“No, it really is,” Emma says, and then pushes up out of the chair.  “Thanks for uh, the puppy therapy.  And for the record, I don’t dislike you,  because I get that you’re trying to do the right thing here, but it just... it’s not working, for them or for you.  And... you all deserve to be...”  
  
“What?” he asks, when she trails off.  
  
“Happy,” she finally says.  It just about comes out the way she wants it to.  
  
That feels like a victory, however minor.  
  
…  
  
She gets to the house about half an hour before she said she’d stop by, and given how Regina is with appointments, spends it in the Bug, going through paperwork she’s picked up at the station.    
  
Some teenagers vandalized a street sign out by the hospital and are due to do some community service for the department in the next week, and she gets some minor satisfaction out of trying to decide what shape their penance should take.  Cleaning up the sewage pipes by the Toll Bridge is a clear winner; it puts a bounce in her step, however briefly, as she walks up to the house and knocks on the door.  
  
The dress Regina’s wearing is an old favorite; it’s a grayish-blue thing that clings to her in all the right places without being slutty, and Emma allows herself a few extra seconds of staring after a quiet, “Hey.”  
  
Regina doesn’t seem to mind much; just holds out her hand for a leather jacket and Emma unzips without any further comment, before looking at the staircase.    
  
She has no idea how she’s going to handle yet another exhausting conversation today; her quota was maxed out about halfway through David’s explanation, which has left her feeling unsettled in ways that even Mary Margaret’s history lesson didn’t.    
  
Somehow, even the idea of hanging out with Regina is more pleasant; at least there, she can count on the relative comfort of a tense silence.  She definitely won’t be randomly blind-sided by pictures of a past she wasn’t a part of; there don’t seem to _be_ any of those in the Mills house.  
  
Regina silently watches her for a few moments as she watches the stairs, and then says, “If you want to postpone...”  
  
Emma shakes her head, clenching her jaw with purpose.  “There’s no postponing in parenting.”  
  
That earns her an approving half-smile, but then Regina’s expression clears again and she just takes a step back.  “He’s waiting for you, in that case.  If you don’t mind stopping by the study before you go--”  
  
Emma nods, before dragging herself up the stairs, one boot at a time.  
  
…  
  
The task was to listen; _really_ listen.  
  
She’s stretched out on Henry’s bed with him, both of their shoes lined up neatly by his bedroom door, and he’s taking her through the book of fairy tales one at a time.  While his initial explanations are urgent, he eventually gets wrapped up in the action--these characters all really enjoy punch-ups and near-death sequences, it seems--and some of the edge in his words fades away.  
  
By the time they’ve reached the middle of the book, where Prince Charming is taken captive by his own father and Snow White stages a rescue mission, Emma is close to falling asleep from all the listening she’s been engaged in, but Henry also seems calm enough for an actual conversation.  She covers the right page with her hand before he can turn it and says, “Hey, I promise I’ll listen to the rest some other time, okay, but we have to talk about what you did last night, kid.”  
  
He tenses a little, the covers shifting beneath him, but then lowers his eyes and nods.  
  
“I get that... right now, to you, your mom is the worst of the worst,” Emma starts, slowly; hours of thinking about this conversation haven’t really helped her come up with an obvious map through it.  “But you’re not seeing the whole picture.”  When Henry opens his mouth to protest, she silences him with a finger and a look, and he closes his mouth again.  “This--you being afraid of your mom, and thinking she’s the evil queen--it all started when I moved out.  I know you’ve had the book longer than that, so it must feel like it all just clicked in place at once, right?”  
  
That earns her another tentative nod, and she lets her hand fall away from his mouth.  
  
“The thing is--that book doesn’t tell you everything.  It really doesn’t, kid, because all you’re seeing is the part where your mom has hurt me, and how... maybe she’s also hurt other people, I guess.  But, those stories, they don’t really tell you anything about what anyone else has done, you know?”  
  
“What do you mean?” he asks, his nose scrunching up.  
  
“Well,” she says, glancing at the book.  “There aren’t any stories in there that talk about the ways in which I’ve hurt people, for starters.”  
  
“Yeah, but that’s because you’re the savior,” Henry tells her, so seriously that she almost feels embarrassed by it.  
  
“Henry--I’m no savior, okay?  If anyone has saved you, all these years, it’s been your mom.  She’s always been there for you, from the moment you were born, and she works _so hard_ to give you a good life.”  Emma hesitates, and then adds, “I don’t think you know how lucky you are, kid.  Nobody cared about saving me when I was growing up, and it was _awful_.”  
  
Henry stays quiet, his expression growing thoughtful, and then he says, “In the book, Charming and Snow White give you away because it’s the only way to save you.”  
  
A wheezy sort of noise escapes her at that idea.  “That’s--I’m sorry, Henry, but that’s a load of crap.  My parents left me in a basket by the side of the road, and some nuns found me and took me to an orphanage.  It wasn’t magical, or special.  Nothing about it is.  It was just... really, really _lonely_.”  
  
Something about Henry’s eyes gets an abrupt kind of clarity when he shifts in closer and says, “I’m sorry, Emma.”  
  
“You don’t have to be sorry,” she says, past the discomfort that always settles in her gut when she thinks of years of her life that she can barely remember.  Not that the ones that followed were much better, but at least she wasn’t as _helpless_ as she would’ve been as a baby.  “It’s been a long time, and I mean... I have people who care about me now.  I have you, and Mary Margaret.”  
  
Henry nods.  
  
“And,” Emma says, biting her lip for a moment.  “I have your mom.”  
  
The moment shatters again, as if physically blown, and Henry’s eyebrows knit together.  “That’s not true--she--”  
  
“No, just stop,” Emma says, shaking her head.  She takes a deep breath and wonders if she can actually do this, before realizing she doesn’t have a choice, faced with Henry’s problems.  “Look, you’re only ten.  You don’t understand adult relationships, but take it from me--they’re bumpy, okay?  Just because I had to leave, that doesn’t mean that I don’t care about your mom anymore.  And just because she’s hurt me, it doesn’t mean that she doesn’t care about me.  And it _doesn’t_ mean that I haven’t hurt her as well, okay?”  
  
There is something a little hopeless about the way Henry’s shoulders slump.  “But--if you love each other, it’s not _supposed_ to be like that.  It’s supposed to be--”  
  
“Like it is in the books?” Emma asks, and Henry’s chin sinks to his chest.  “Or... like it was between your mom and your dad?”  
  
Henry says nothing for an age, but his chin is quivering a little, and Emma slings her arm around his back and waits him out.  The book sits awkwardly between them, but with a nudge from her foot, she manages to get it to the end of the bed; really, it’s tempting to just push it off altogether.  
  
“There’s a photo album,” Henry finally says.  “Mom doesn’t like it when I look at it, but that’s because it makes her feel bad.  Because she killed him.”  
  
“Killed _who_ , Henry?”  Emma asks, leaning back.  
  
“My dad,” Henry says, somberly.  
  
Emma almost asks, “Is there anyone your mother _hasn’t_ killed?”, but then Henry mashes his lips together and says, very quietly, “I’m not supposed to know that.  But I heard her telling Grandma once.”  
  
“That--she killed your dad?”  
  
Henry nods, his eyes small and wet, and then pulls on her sleeve hard enough for the fabric to sound like it’s ripping.  “I was supposed to be asleep but I wasn’t.  And then she said that she’d killed him, and Grandma said that it was for the best, because she’s also evil, and--I don’t want her to kill you, Emma.”  
  
“Henry, she’s not going to--”  
  
Tears start running from his eyes before can say more and then he squeezes his eyes shut.  “I thought that she was better now, that you were making her better, but you haven’t made her better and now you’re gone and I don’t want her to--”  
  
“Oh, God, come here,” Emma says,and pulls Henry in closer, tucking him under her chin.  The kid trembles against her and her shirt is getting soaked through with a disgusting mixture of snot and tears, but this is what she was supposed to do; what will make things better for him, and all she can do is tell him the truth.  “She’s not going to kill me; kid, she’s not going to kill _anyone_ , and she’s not evil.  She loves _you_ , Henry, and if she loves you, it means she can find love with someone else again.  Even if it isn’t me.  She’ll--”  
  
“But I _want_ it to be you, Emma.”  
  
It’s anguished, the way his voice squeezes out as he burrows into her arms further, and she feels her own vision get blurry as she rubs at his back and thinks about what she can possibly say to make this better for him.  
  
Any kind of promise would be a lie, and so she settles on a soft, “I know.”  
  
…  
  
When Henry has cried himself to sleep, her shirt is sticking to her shoulder and her arms are downright sore from how long and tightly she’s been holding him.  
  
Every step back down the stairs feels like a further reminder that she’s basically trespassing; that all of this, this house and this family, was only _hers_ as long as Regina let her believe that she had a claim to it.  
  
By the time she reaches the study and spots Regina staring out at her apple tree--some piano concerto that she’s heard often, but still doesn’t know the name or composer of, playing in the background--she feels like she’s gone six rounds in the rings with the cleverest son of a bitch she ever had to track down--it took four weeks, with barely any sleep, and by the time she caught up to him she was almost in New Mexico.    
  
Every part of her just aches, and that ache only intensifies when Regina turns to look at her.  
  
Regina’s lips part faintly, but she doesn’t speak.  Emma knows she’s defining hot mess right now, and wants nothing more than to sit down, but just can’t bring herself to do it.  
  
Instead, she leans heavily against the door frame, and says, “He’s fine, he’s asleep.  I think I got somewhere, but...”  
  
Regina barely reacts, but the barest of nods gives Emma just enough willpower to say more.  
  
“You know... maybe I never asked for a life with you and Henry in Storybrooke, but when you offered it to me, I chose it.  I _always_ chose it, and then you took it away from me.”  Emma looks at the floor for a few seconds, her boots dangling from her right hand, and then forces herself to look at Regina again.  “If you’d ever asked me--if I was happy, if this was what I wanted, I would’ve told you.  But you didn’t, and I guess I’m the idiot who didn’t ask you because I just... I thought that if I was happy, you had to be, too.”  
  
Regina shifts in her chair, pushing away from the desk, but Emma holds out her hand to stop her.  
  
“Don’t.”  She takes a breath and almost laughs, just because this is _that_ awful.  “I just spent an hour trying to tell Henry that no matter what, all of us would be okay, but that’s a load of crap because _you_ haven’t been okay for years now, and I had _no_ idea.  Do you have any idea how awful that feels?  To--look at a picture of someone you’ve lived with and realize you’ve never once _seen_ them actually happy?”  
  
“Emma,” Regina says, in a tone of voice she’s never heard before; it’s not even like the pleading that followed the cheating.  It’s somehow emptier, and hearing it, it’s so fucking tempting to just walk in and have a drink and see where that takes them, but--  
  
Six years of doing exactly that got her where she is now, with this fucking _pit_ in her stomach and her heart convulsing all over the place, drowning her in feelings that she has no idea how to deal with.  
  
She swallows, and then looks away.  “I don’t know what you thought we were doing all these years, but I can’t go back to it.”  
  
“Meaning?” Regina asks, thinly.  
  
Emma shoves her hands in her pockets and curls her hands into fists, nails digging into her palm.  “This... it can’t all be about what _Henry_ needs.  I mean, if that’s the only reason I was ever here at all, I’m--”  
  
She can hear Regina quietly sigh, and bites her lip, not sure if she wants to finish that sentence even if she is sure that she means it.  
  
“I thought... _you_ were only here because of Henry,” Regina says, her voice unusually strained.  “I had my reasons for believing that, but if I was wrong--”  
  
“You broke my fucking heart, Regina,” Emma cuts her off, her voice so thick the words chafe as they come out.  “Wrong doesn’t even begin to cover it.”  
  
Regina doesn’t respond, and Emma allows herself one last glance across the room, only to spot Regina playing with her left hand--a finger there that she’s never worn a ring on, for reasons that Emma’s never asked about, because she didn’t think that they ultimately mattered.  
  
Seeing it is enough to make her feel abruptly ill now, though.  “You know what, I’m just going to--”  
  
“If Henry’s well-being was the only real concern _I_ had,” Regina cuts her off, sharp enough for her to freeze in place, half-turned away from the door, “why would I have ever tried to give you a clear reason to leave?  Think, Emma.  Why would I even have _cared_ about your reasons for being here?  Your affection for Henry has never been in question.”  
  
Emma blinks a few times before sighing deeply and looking at Regina imploringly.  “Can you just for once in your life say what you--”  
  
“Yours wasn’t the only heart I broke that day,” Regina says, so bluntly that it almost feels like a slap, before tilting her chin up and looking at Emma unflinchingly.  “Is that _plain_ enough English for you, dear?”  
  
Emma’s voice is barely more than a croak when she forces herself to use it.  “Yeah.  I... yeah.”  
  
The silence they land in feels so dense, it’s almost tangible.  Emma fidgets and glances back at the door, but before she can make a move, Regina says, “So”, drawing the word out until it’s a challenge of sorts.  
  
When Emma slowly looks back over, she suddenly feels a flash of déjà vu; it’s of Regina watching her get dressed in a cabin by the lake. She had been struggling to get her jeans tucked into her boots, and then—right before she made her grand escape—Regina halted her with a very simple question that she repeats now, the second their eyes lock.

“What happens now, Miss Swan?”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a brief scene involving physical aggression near the end of this chapter that some readers may find triggering.

  
“And then you kissed her?” Mary Margaret asks. She looks the same way she does when Emma catches her watching re-runs of daytime soaps on the weekends; like she’s missing a bucket of popcorn and like leaning forward will actually make the story go faster.

Emma makes a face at the mere idea. “No.”

Mary Margaret switches from one leg to the next, now looking concerned. “Tell me you didn’t _hit_ her.”

It’s hard not to scowl. “Okay, my first reaction to drama is not _always_ to throw a punch.”

“Maybe not, but Regina has a way of bringing it out in people,” Mary Margaret says, holding out a spoonful of soup for Emma to sample.

“I didn’t want to hit her. _Or_ kiss her. I guess it was a really big moment, or whatever, but--it was all kind of angry and sad. I didn’t want to..."  She sighs in frustration and blows on the soup before tasting it.

“Talking gets easier, the more you do it, you know,” Mary Margaret says.

“Yeah, maybe,” Emma sighs, before giving Mary Margaret a dry look. “Though I doubt you’ve ever had to listen to your wife suggest that you’re basically DTF with the entire population of Maine. And that needs more salt, I think.”

“DTF?” Mary Margaret asks, genuinely curious.

Emma rolls her eyes. “Never mind. All I mean is, it’s not as if talking isn’t hard enough but... we don’t exactly have _fun_ things to discuss, you know?”

“Will you be able to get forgive her if you don’t talk about them?” Mary Margaret asks, grinding some pepper into the soup and then testing a spoonful herself, this time with a pleased hum.

Emma hesitates, before glaring at Mary Margaret. “Probably not.”

The pat she gets on the shoulder is both condescending and kind of nice. “It will get easier.”

…

She sleeps for almost ten hours, which isn’t really a surprise after the last twenty four, and then drags herself out of bed to a mostly cold shower so that she can look at least slightly alert at work. Graham still hasn’t tried to assert any real authority, but he _is_ her boss, and the fact that her kid flew the coop and then badgered him in the middle of the night is enough to make her feel like she needs to make a good impression.

Even if he _did_ sleep with Regina.

As she’s brushing her teeth, she realizes that her unwillingness to work alongside him is starting to feel a little hollow, especially since she’s reaching a point where she knows she’ll eventually forgive Regina.

Surely Regina owed her more than _he_ ever did?

...

On a whim, she stops by the diner and--as soon as she’s escaped Ruby’s questions about how ‘everything’ is going--knocks on the window to his office and holds up a cup of coffee.

He eyes it like it’s poisoned, and she bites her lip to not say that that’s more Regina’s style; it would defeat the purpose of the gesture.

Even then, he very slowly takes hold of the cup and places it on his desk, before looking at her again. The look in his eyes reminds her of the puppy that David planted on her yesterday; it makes it almost impossible to do or say anything bitchy to him. That’s been eating at her for weeks, during the few times where they can’t just avoid each other altogether.

“I don’t know how you take it,” she says, and then fishes a few sugar and creamer packets out of her pocket.

She’s silent as he pours enough sugar into the cup to make her teeth start to ache, and then raises her eyebrows when a similar amount of creamer is dumped in.

“Do you just--want a bottle of milk next time, or what?”

He smiles in a way that suggests he’s not sure if he’s supposed to, and she’s suddenly fed up with this entire situation. With one more step she’s inside the office, and a hooked boot around the door slams it shut a second later.

Graham watches her sit down across from him and deliberately place her own cup on the desk, and then ventures, “I’m going to take a stab in the dark here and say this isn’t about work.”

Emma looks down at her own lap and plays with the edge of her badge for a few second, before sighing kicking out her legs until they’re up against his desk. “What would you do, if you were in my shoes?”

He’s still using the plastic stirrer, but lets go of it, and it swoops around the rim of the cup once more before settling. Graham’s eyebrows contract faintly, but then he slowly relaxes in his chair a little and says, “I truly can’t tell you. I’ve never been in your shoes. Or close to them.”

“Do you--” Emma starts, and then sighs, averting her head. “Jesus, I don’t know how to ask this.”

The only noise in his office is the crackle of the police radio that they use to talk to highway patrol, until Graham sighs deeply and says, “It isn't what you think.”

“What I think--” Emma says, frowning. “What do you mean?”

Graham looks incredibly ashamed as he stares at the desk. “I mean--she has something on me. The way she has something on most of the people in town. You could say I owe her, in a big way, and two months ago she asked me to do something for her in kind.”

“Oh,” Emma says, exhaling heavily; she could ask for more information, but she’s been with Regina long enough to know that she keeps a collection of other people’s skeletons in her own closet. It’s almost disappointingly obvious, the fact that her affair somehow was rooted back room dealing and not anything more salacious than that. “So--what was the deal? You sleep with her, and she wipes your slate clean?”

Graham looks at her through his eyelashes, his entire expression embarrassed. “Something like that. I didn't realize this at the time, but I believe you were meant to catch us the first time.”

Emma can only really manage a grimace. “Yeah, I’m not really a stickler to schedules.” There's an errant thought at the back of her head about how that's always been a source of friction between her and Regina, but she forces it aside.

They both look around his office for a few moments, until Graham pulls his chair closer to his desk and stares at her intently, with his dog-like eyes--until he lowers them. “Emma--I’m truly sorry about all of this. I feel absolutely _nothing_ for her, and if not for the fact that she asked--”

“How serious is this thing she did for you?”

Graham’s eyes slip shut, briefly, and then he says, “A few years ago, I came across some poachers in the woods out by the Toll Bridge. What they’d done to the deer they’d hunted--God, Emma, _they_ were the animals. The things I saw that day...” He trails off, and then shakes his head and looks at Emma, pain contorting his features. “I completely lost it. I had nearly beaten one of them to death by the time I regained my senses. I called her for help, because I had no one else to call.”

“And she did. Help you,” Emma says, clutching at her coffee a little more tightly.

Graham’s expression darkens briefly, but then he sighs. “She could’ve turned me in. Instead, she buried what I’d done and protected me--and then reminded me of that courtesy a few months back.” He looks at Emma with enough regret that she can tell that he means it. “It was _my_ choice, to say yes, and so I don’t expect you to ever forgive me for what I’ve done. Just know that I wouldn’t, now. Not even given how much I owe her. I wouldn’t now that I know _you_ ; now that I know what a good, decent person you are. I couldn’t.”

Emma sort of sighs. “Yeah. Okay.”

Graham hesitates visibly for a few moments before holding out his hand. “A truce, then?”

She looks at his hand for a long moment--a few scars on his knuckles now meaningful in a way they weren’t ten minutes ago--and then takes it and shakes it.

…

A few hours later, she comes back from a quick trip to the ladies’ only to find Kathryn Nolan leaning against the edge of her desk.

The hesitation in her movement forward is blatant and kind of idiotic.

“Don’t worry, I don’t bite,” Kathryn tells her, with a small smile.

Emma saves herself the best she can, sort of stumbling forward towards her chair and then just shoves her free hand in her pocket and says, “Uh--what can I do for you?”

The biggest problem she has when talking to Kathryn Nolan isn’t her awareness of David’s issues, right now; no, it’s that she’s basically Regina’s one and only friend, and Emma’s never really talked to her, because...

Well, God, because of _everything_. Emma glances down, wishing she’d ironed her shirt or something; Kathryn is definitely one of the Regina school of Impeccable Everything, and that’s never not made her feel out of place and unprepared.

Kathryn pops open her briefcase, also resting on Emma’s desk, and Emma actually takes a step back. “What--”

“Oh, God, I’m so sorry,” Kathryn says, immediately reaching out like she’s going to try to console Emma and then laughing a little sheepishly. “I forgot that David said that he’d talked to you--no, these aren’t dissolution papers.  I’m not here with bad news.”

It’s double whiplash, and Emma grapples blindly for her chair and then sinks down onto it, as smoothly as she can. “Okay. Uh. Did I inherit something, or--”

“May I?” Kathryn asks, pointing at the empty desk behind Emma’s, before pulling out the chair there and sitting down on it. She crosses her legs easily and then rolls forward until they can both see the paperwork she’s pulled from her briefcase. “Alas, I’m not the money fairy--I specialize in family law, not probate.”

“Right,” Emma says, watching as Kathryn flicks through a few color-coded tabs in the document and then halts on a green one.

Kathryn lowers the document to her own lap, and then offers a sympathetic smile. “I know this has to be a little strange, given that we all know each other, but I'll try to make this quick and painless. What Regina asked me to do is basically solidify the custody arrangement you’ve already mutually agreed upon, so that if your own relationship deteriorates further, your rights regarding Henry can't be negatively affected.”

Emma blinks and then looks at the paperwork again. “In other words--even if it gets to the point where we no longer talk to each other, if the kid wants to see me, he gets to see me.”

“If she refuses you access, you can get her arrested,” Kathryn says, thumb running over a red tab at the back.

The prospect is calling the cops on a recalcitrant Regina is actually a little delightful, and Emma has to cover her mouth to hide a completely immature smile. That smile fades when it occurs to her that this paperwork is basically Regina’s way of giving up on … well, everything _but_ Henry, and leaving the ball in her court.

“How long ago did she ask you to work this up?” she asks, glancing at Kathryn.

“Hmmm--about five days ago? I’ve been busy with a social services case and, well, you _are_ still on speaking terms, as far as I know, so it felt like--”

“Shred it,” Emma says, cutting her off.

Kathryn raises her eyebrows in surprise. “I’m sorry, you want me to destroy--”

“Yeah,” Emma says, feeling even more sure now that she’s confirmed it. “We don’t need it. I think that we’ve been as uncivil as it’s going to get. Or, well, I’m sure we’ll be shouting at each other about something soon--but that’s just how we communicate.”

Kathryn laughs, before depositing the paperwork back in her briefcase. “I can’t say she’s ever told me that, but then Regina’s always been incredibly private.”

“Even about Daniel?” Emma asks--or, well, her mouth asks for her. It’s utterly without permission, and the minute the words are out there, she fervently wishes that Kathryn just didn’t hear them.

Kathryn did, though, and looks at Emma curiously for a few seconds.

Emma feels her face heat up and then says, “You hear things, sometimes. Or... not really. Maybe.”

Five seconds later, Emma is forced to reconsider what the absolute worst thing about Kathryn Nolan is, because the woman actually looks at her with some measure of fondness and then says, “Are you doing anything for lunch today?”

…

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Kathryn tells her, when she expresses some concern about what she’s wearing and where they’re going. “It’s not actually exclusive; that would result in bankruptcy in Storybrooke. If you wanted a membership, you could get one.”

The tennis club is also the de facto country club, because Storybrooke isn’t big enough for both, and Kathryn is unsurprisingly a member. Emma tries to think if she’s ever been before, but while Regina probably shows up for business lunches regularly, it really isn’t her kind of place.

Really, _any_ place with valet parking isn’t her kind of place, but the look that some snooty asshole maitre d'--who probably goes by _Gaston_ or something--gives her when she strolls into the foyer is enough to make her regret coming out here with Kathryn.

Before she can make up an excuse to leave, though, Kathryn takes her by the elbow and drags her in, telling Gaston that she hopes her table is ready. They get a curt nod, and then walk into a room full of the Storybrooke social elite--all of whom are staring at Emma.

She makes sure her badge is visible, for just a few seconds, and that seems to diminish the interest somewhat, but the hole at the bottom of the shirt still pretty firmly establishes her to be the pauper in this room. Kathryn, meanwhile, stops and talks to a few of the older ladies at the other tables, and then looks back at Emma with a wry half-smile.

“Holding court is part of how you keep business going here,” she says, almost confidentially, as they get seated.

Emma just nods, and is relieved when the waiter leaves them alone again and she can just take a drink of water, as Kathryn checks the messages on her phone briefly before putting it away and then placing her napkin on her lap.

The menus are in their hands almost immediately, and Emma studies hers for as long as she reasonably can, because--seriously, _why_ did she think this would be a good idea?

“If you need suggestions,” Kathryn says; it’s possible she’s a mind-reader, or maybe Emma’s face just screams _I don’t speak French_. “I’m a vegetarian, and the risotto is normally very good--but my father-in-law swears by the Porterhouse, and …” Kathryn rolls her eyes faintly and then says, “David normally orders something from the kids’ menu.”

It’s enough to bring a small smile to Emma’s face. “I might, uh, join him in that. Now that Regina’s not here to tell me off for it, anyway.”

“Does she normally order for you?” Kathryn asks, and it’s genuinely curious enough that Emma realizes that, no, Regina really doesn’t talk about their relationship.

“I'd like to see her _try_ ; and anyway, we tend to just eat at home. I mean, we did until recently. I wasn’t here a lot, so...”

Kathryn nods. “Regina’s always been a great cook, so why bother going out, right?”

“Yeah,” Emma agrees, scanning over the menu with an abrupt sense of longing--but a place this ridiculously upscale probably doesn’t serve lasagna, so never mind. “I’ll go with the, uh--the fancy fish fingers.”

Even just watching Kathryn order, all smiles and easy charm with the waiter, makes her suddenly feel a lot more sympathy for David. This isn’t the kind of woman you just put to the side, and she thinks that _living_ with Mary Margaret.

“So,” Kathryn says, as the waiter departs. Emma forces a smile. “Daniel, huh?”

“Daniel,” Emma agrees. It occurs to her that she has no idea what his last name is, because nobody ever uses it. He’s just _Daniel_. Like he’s fucking _Madonna_.

It’s probably wrong, to so inherently dislike a guy who died way before his time, but the way that he’s suddenly all over her existence means that she only wants to know enough to make him go away again. If the stories are overwhelmingly positive, it’s almost a guarantee that he never will.

“How much do you know already?” Kathryn asks, as a bread basket is placed between them.

Emma takes a roll just to have something to focus on, and slices it open before reaching for the butter. “I know... that he passed away before Henry was born, so it must’ve been when Regina was pregnant. And that they had a huge wedding and that he rode horses.”

“Trained, not rode,” Kathryn says, pouring herself a glass of water. “He was our riding instructor when we were teenagers. Regina had an interest in show jumping, and so they had a lot of one on one tuition, and eventually...”

Emma sighs. “Of course.”

Kathryn looks a little amused by her. “I’m not going to pretend it was love at first sight. I meant that in time, they noticed each other. By the time she was eighteen, she knew that he was the one. Not that she’d ever say it, but just looking at them, you knew.”

“So, they dated for a while and then got married, and--”

“Oh, no,” Kathryn says, shaking her head. “She got shipped off to college. Her mother didn’t approve. I mean, her family _owned_ the riding school; she had no business sleeping with the help, let alone wanting to spend the rest of her life with him. So, she went to college, and the best Daniel and Regina managed was sneaking away a few stolen moments over the summer. If he hadn’t been so gifted with the horses, I’m sure he would’ve lost his job, but her father stepped in and prevented that from happening for the sake of the business.”

Thinking of Regina that young, and so effortlessly controlled by a parent, has her grip on the butter knife slipping to the point where she almost drops it; but then she remembers that one unfortunate moment of meeting Cora Mills, and almost has to suppress a shiver.

“Eventually, they worked it out. I’m still not sure what changed, but the wedding was set just months after she graduated." Kathryn smiles a little sadly. “I wish I’d been around more, then. We kept in touch while I was off at law school, but … I missed out on most of the good years.”

“And then he died,” Emma supplies, quietly.

Kathryn looks at her curiously for a few seconds, and then says, “You don’t know _how_ , do you.”

Emma shakes her head. “I know it was an accident, but that’s all. Nobody really talks about it.”

“No,” Kathryn says, leaning back in her chair with a slight slump. “I suppose nobody who was there at the time would, primarily because of Regina. But, Emma--it wasn’t an accident that ended his life.”

Emma frowns. “It wasn’t?”

“No, I mean--he was breaking in a stallion and it threw him and he landed in a way that broke his back, but--that’s not what killed him. He made it to the hospital, and he didn’t die--he just... never woke up again.” Kathryn looks away and tugs her lip between her teeth just briefly. “I was the one who had stressed to them that it was important that they make... arrangements, in case something happened to either of them. Especially with the baby on the way. But even if they hadn’t, she would’ve been the one to take the decision, as his wife.”

Emma actually can’t think of a single thing to say, and just stares helplessly across the table as Kathryn examines the table-cloth for a few moments.

“There’s a reason nobody brings it up,” Kathryn then says, in a small voice.

“I had...” Emma starts to say, and then just closes her eyes and covers her face with both of her hands. “God, I thought he just--”

“I’m sure that if Regina wanted to talk about it, she would have--”

Some sort of hybrid between a laugh and a sob escapes Emma and she digs her palms into her eyes. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

Henry’s words from the night before ring in her ears, and she takes a deep breath before letting her hands fall back to her lap.

“I was... relieved, when you came onto the scene,” Kathryn says, a little more hesitantly. “I have to admit I didn’t initially understand what she was doing with you, but--those first four years, after the accident--I think we mostly elected her so she had something to _do_. The stables closed when her father died, and with only Henry around for company... I tried to get her to talk about it, but she didn't want to.”

Even just breathing is an effort with how sick she feels, right now, but then their lunches get put in front of them and she realizes that it’s not _that_ kind of sick. She just feels destroyed, from the inside out, at the idea that she never once stopped to think about what it was that got a woman as composed as Regina to a place where sleeping with a twenty-two year old nomadic sign wrecker seemed like the thing to do.

If she could go back, she’d--

“You were the first person in a very long time who didn’t feel sorry for her. I think it taught all of us a lesson about what she needed,” Kathryn says, and then chuckles softly. “She wasn’t always as dictatorial as she is these days, but at least she has some spark back, now. It’s--better.”

Emma glances up at her warily, prodding her fork at one of the fish fingers until it separates into bite-sized pieces. “Is it?”

Kathryn appraises her openly for a few seconds, and then says, “She’s a good person. She just doesn’t always know how to show it, and she’s really skilled at shutting people out, but... Trust me, Emma--you’ve already done a lot to fix what was wrong before, even if it's not obvious.”

Emma manages a small smile, before clearing her throat and wondering what else they can talk about as she finds out what fifty dollar fish fingers taste like.

...

Mary Margaret isn’t home yet when her shift ends, and so she cranks up some Bikini Kill and draws herself a bath before rummaging through all the cabinets in the house for any leftover alcohol.

She gets stuck on a few light beers--obviously not hers--but they’ll do, and she tosses them into the freezer so that they’ll be really cold by the time Mary Margaret gets home. After, she strips out of the more restrictive parts of her work ‘uniform’ until she’s just in a tank top and her underwear, and then stares at her phone for a few moments.

The first call she puts in is to information, to get the number for the animal shelter.

Dr. Turner hands her over to David, who sounds way too pleased that she’s calling, and she shuts that right the hell off with a curt, “Your wife is great, and I’m sure she’d be making someone else really happy if you could stop trying to be noble for five minutes.”

A parrot screeches loudly somewhere in the background, and then David sighs and says, “Thank you, Emma. For being honest.”

“No problem,” she says, and hangs up.

Next, she dials Regina’s office. Marjory, the ancient behemoth of a receptionist that seems to just come with the building, tells her that Regina is a meeting for the next hour, and so she leaves a message and then heads to the bathroom.

Most people probably wouldn’t be able to nod off to Bikini Kill blasting in the background, but most people didn’t grow up in foster homes with six other kids screaming at each other about fucking _everything_ , and so she is mostly asleep by the time her phone rings.

She almost drops it in the tub, fumbling it above the suds, but then manages to clamp it to her ear right before it goes to voicemail. “Yeah?”

“Would a _hello_ kill you?” Regina asks.

Emma rolls her eyes, poking her toes out of the bath. “ _Thank_ you for calling back, your highness. How has your day been?”

Regina sounds unamused as she says, “ _Fine_ , dear. I’m currently looking over some unsigned paperwork that, hmm, I believe is meant to have your signature on it. Care to explain?”

“Oh, right,” Emma says, brushing her hair out of her face. “Yeah. I didn’t think we needed that.”

“Really.”

“Yeah. I mean, I trust you,” Emma says, and then realizes it’s a lie as soon as it’s out of her mouth; she sort of saves it with an added, “When it comes to Henry.”

“Mm,” is Regina’s only response.

Without visual cues, the woman could literally be beheading a chicken for a ritual sacrifice right now and Emma would actually have no idea. It’s impressive and infuriating in equal measure.

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your summons, if not this, then?” Regina then asks.

“Um, two things, really,” Emma says. The music in the living room shuts off and so she covers her phone with her hand to really quickly shout, “I’m in the bath” at Mary Margaret--who doesn’t believe in knocking, or locks on her doors--before letting it dangle over the edge of the tub again.

“I had an interesting talk with Graham today,” she then says, to Regina.

“Oh?” Regina says. She actually manages to sound innocent.

“I’d _like_ to think you just used your position to help a good man out of a nasty situation, but somehow I get the feeling that you only helped him because you knew it would make him indebted to you,” Emma says, tapping her nails against the edge of the bathtub.

Regina is quiet for a few seconds, but then carefully says, “Those motivations are not mutually exclusive, Miss Swan. The higher up you go, the more you’ll realize that.”

“You’re a real piece of work sometimes, do you know that?” Emma asks, fighting the urge to sigh; it’s hard to really get worked up about what Regina did, though, given that in the six years they’ve been together, she’s manipulated and bullied more councilmen and small business owners than any one person should be able to. It makes her a good mayor, even if it sheds some doubt on Kathryn’s assertion that Regina is a genuinely good person.

Maybe, though, it’s simply not possible to be both decent and in charge; not all the time, anyway.

"He could have said no, Emma," Regina says, calmly. "No matter what else you think of me, I'm not in the habit of extorting sexual favors from city officials. I asked if he'd be willing to do this for me, as I once did something for him, and he said yes."

"And _if_ he'd said no--"

Regina sighs loudly. "Then he would've said _no_. I would've found different means of achieving the same result."

Emma rubs at the bridge of her nose and then sighs as well. "Your concept of a friendly favor is a little different from mine, Regina."

“I'm sure it is, but that's between me and the sheriff. What was your second question?” Regina asks, a little coolly. “More of my nefarious schemes that you’re trying to put an end to, or something more banal?”

“I just … wanted to see if Henry gave you any grief last night,” Emma says, grimacing at her own obvious cop-out.

“No, actually,” Regina says, sounding vaguely relieved. “I can’t say that he’s back to normal, but he allowed me to say goodnight to him, at least.”

Emma sighs at the idea that that’s progress, these days. “Okay. And--”

“And what?”

“Are … _you_ okay?”

Regina actually sounds amused when she asks, “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Regina, come on.”

The line is completely silent aside from even, measured breathing, until Regina says, “If I give you an honest answer, will you tell me something in kind?”

Emma sighs again, but it’s fondly, this time. “Not _everything_ is a negotiation, Madam Mayor.”

“Not to you, perhaps. Yes or no?”

“Fine,” Emma says, shifting and then cursing under her breath as some water skips over the edge of the tub. “So are you? Okay?”

“I’m … I wouldn’t say I’m getting _used_ to my son not talking to me, but it’s gotten to the point where any progress on that front is a relief, so I’d say that I’m ... coping.”

“Okay.”

“Additionally,” Regina says, even more stiltedly, “I’ve come to the conclusion that a king sized bed is wholly unnecessary, unless you’re sharing it with someone who seems to only be able to sleep diagonally.”

Emma snorts, and then runs a wet hand through her hair. “You’re welcome to try my bunk here; or should I say, the spare _springs_ that Mary Margaret is letting me crash on. I feel like I’m going to herniate a disc one of these days just from rolling over.”

“Yes, well,” Regina says, and then shuts up.

Their current sleeping habits really aren’t a nice and neutral topic, and so Emma clears her throat. “What did you want to know?”

“Rumor has it that you and Kathryn had lunch today,” Regina says, immediately sounding more relaxed now that control of the conversation has shifted back to her. “I’m--curious. You’ve never expressed an interest in getting to know her before now.”

Emma cringes at the factual way Regina says it, even though she knows is true. “Yeah. That’s because I always thought of her as _your_ friend, and Mary Margaret as _my_ friend, and my friend is in love with your friend’s husband, so--”

“Ah,” Regina says, darkly.

“But as it turns out, she’s really nice, so--”

“You sound surprised that I could be friends with someone _nice_.”

Emma smiles unwillingly. “Your opinion of Mary Margaret suggests that nice isn’t really your thing.”

“I’m not a fan of simpering, Emma. That’s not the same--”

“ _Hey_ ,” Emma warns, frowning.

“Miss Blanchard is also my junior by quite a number of years--”

Emma laughs. “Really? _That’s_ your reason?”

“I _meant_ that we’ve never had any real reason to socialize, given that I have no desire to sleep with _her_ ,” Regina says, in a way that lets Emma know that she’s hit the _don’t tease me_ threshold of the day.

“Okay, fine. My only point was that Kathryn’s nice. That's all.”

Regina hesitates and then asks, “What did you talk about?”

Emma digs her teeth into her lip and then sighs. “Your previous marriage.”

“Oh,” Regina says. It’s not really a word; it’s more of a noise of utter devastation, just like that, and Emma lets herself sink further into the water, instantly regretting their new honesty pact, or whatever it is that they’re doing.

“Talking to the kid last night made me realize I don’t know anything, really, except that--”

“I see.  And did she satisfy your curiosity, Miss Swan?” Regina says, so forcefully and with so much sarcasm that Emma winces.

“It wasn’t--”

“I don’t really care to know _what_ it was. The next time you have questions, you can take them to _me_ , or you can keep them to yourself.”

Click.

Emma stares at her phone or a few seconds, and then half-heartedly throws it at the bathroom door; a knock from Mary Margaret a few seconds later is enough to make her pull her knees up until she can go all the way underwater, and let out a pretty much silent scream.

…

She’s in the middle of doing the dishes when there’s a knock on the door; Mary Margaret’s knitting her a hat on the couch and moves to go and answer, but Emma flicks some remnant suds into the murky dish water and says, ‘I’ll get it.”

As she opens, she’s not really sure what she’s expecting, but it’s definitely not Regina, looking extremely discomfited in her black wool winter coat.

Emma gapes at her openly for a few seconds, before leaning back around the door in an attempt to catch Mary Margaret's eye. “Uh, it’s for me--I’ll be right back.”

As the door closes behind her, she realizes that she’s not wearing shoes, or socks, and enough water has splashed onto her torso to make her v-neck translucent in places. She tugs on the end of her shirt to pull it away from her body, and ends up just leaving her hand curled around the hem as she looks back up at Regina.

The dark look on Regina’s face isn’t very promising.

“I wasn’t prying,” Emma sort of blurts out, looking back steadily. It doesn’t occur to until after she’s already said it that it’s an idiotic thing to say. They’re _married_ , in so much as they can be. That alone should make this kind of information fair game, but she knows--seeing the barely hidden anger simmering in Regina’s eyes--that somehow, that’s just _not_ how it works.

“What did Kathryn tell you?” Regina finally asks, her voice lower than it normally is.

“Nothing I couldn’t have found out through reading a newspaper, Regina,” Emma says. It’s meant to be comforting, but Regina’s expression contorts further at the words.

“Yes,” she then says, staring at the peephole on the door behind Emma. “I suppose there are many ways you _could_ have found out about my first marriage.”

Emma holds her breath for a few seconds as Regina’s chin trembles, but there’s nothing else forthcoming, and so she says, “I didn’t know _how_ to ask about the guy I was... well, you know. Replac--”

A hand wraps around her throat before she can finish the sentence, and she finds herself flattened against the door with Regina pressed up against her, so tightly pressed to her that Emma's entire neck bobs with an attempt to swallow and breathe at the same time.

“You could _never_ replace him,” Regina bites out at her.

Emma sucks in a breath through her nose and then lifts her hands to press on Regina’s shoulders. “I didn’t mean--”

“He was a good man; a _brave_ man, and he would’ve made a fantastic father. He didn’t run from his responsibilities; he embraced them. He would’ve never--” Regina says, but the more urgent her voice becomes, the more it becomes apparent that she’s close to tears.

The hand around Emma’s throat slackens as Regina tries to finish the sentence, but every harried inhalation just ends in a wheezing sound that kind of sounds like 'he'.  

It makes Emma’s chest ache. She hesitates, just for a second, and then tries to wrap an arm around Regina's waist. “I’m sorry; you’re right, I should’ve just asked you. I only asked because Henry--”

Her hands are flung away as Regina takes a step back and clenches her teeth together; her eyes glitter like wet stones, and her voice is steely when she says, “What does any of this have to do with Henry?”

“I think he overheard you telling your mother that you killed his father, a few years ago,” Emma says, resisting the urge to rub at her throat. She’s quite sure that there’ll be some faint bruises forming there in the next few days, but it’s hard to care when Regina looks at her the way she's doing right now--blinking frantically, with her chest almost heaving.

At the prospect of tears that she knows Regina won’t want her to see, Emma stares at the floor and twists her shirt in her hand some more.

“He obviously doesn’t know what you meant, and I think one of us better tell him the truth; tell him that you’re not actually in the business of, well, you know,” she then adds.

Regina wipes at her eyes with the tips of her fingers and then leans against one of the brick walls that line the hallway. The fact that she’s trying to get herself under control again is obvious, and Emma takes a hesitant step towards her, settling for putting a hand on her upper arm for now.

Regina lets her, and then after a moment looks her in the eyes. “I didn’t...” she starts, with a quick glance at Emma's throat, before running her hand through the front of her hair and letting it sink back into place. “It’s been a long day.”

When a hand reaches out to gently brush against the faintly sore marks that are blooming on her neck now, Emma unwillingly shudders and leans into it. “I’ll live, don’t worry.”

Regina’s lips clamp together for a brief moment, and then her face loses what lingered of the angry red flush that had colored it a few minutes ago, before pinning Emma in place with another stark look.  “I’ve never looked to replace Daniel. I accepted long ago that nothing ever could.”

Emma quells a rush of disappointment as Regina’s hand falls away from her neck, and stays falls silent as Regina’s eyes flicker across her face for a few moments.

“Don’t assume that that’s a bad thing,” Regina adds, softly, before reaching to fix her scarf and collar and then turning on her heels again.

Emma reaches for her arm before she can start down the stairs and gives it a gentle tug. “Hey--”

“What?” Regina asks, without turning around.

Emma hesitates, and then says, “Do you--maybe have any leftover lasagne in the freezer? I kind of had a craving, earlier, and--”

Regina looks at her sharply, and Emma keeps her expression as blank as possible; maybe she looks a little hopeful, but that really _is_ about the food, not about anything more complicated than that.

Eventually, Regina nods. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Emma lets her body sink fully against the door again as she watches Regina descend the stairs, disappearing into the flicker of the light in the downstairs corridor before the front door to the building slams shut behind her.  Only then does she let go of the breath she's been holding, and slowly exhales before heading back inside.  



	9. Chapter 9

Even though they have weekends, it feels like she goes whole lifetimes without seeing the kid.  
  
Not seeing him used to be something that she just filed away as _part of the job_.  Even longer ago, it wasn’t even really a conscious thought; just a flash on the drive back to Storybrooke, reminding her that she probably ought to pop out at a gas station and get him something.  Longer ago yet, she used to wonder if he’d even remember her, or stay hidden behind Regina’s legs, bunching up her pants at the knees with his fists as he peered out behind her.  
  
The six years that span her relationship with Henry seem exactly as long as the time that passes from Monday morning to Friday afternoon, somehow.  
  
It’s impossible to think that she used to think she’d be _awful_ at dealing with him; that they used to just sort of stare at each other because he couldn’t really carry on a conversation and the last four year old she’d interacted with was a foster sister when she was eleven.  
  
It’s impossible to think that six years ago, she drove right the fuck on out of Storybrooke, Maine, and never even knew he _existed_.  
  
Since then, he’s just sort of squirmed into a space that she didn’t know was empty and definitely didn’t mean to leave open.  That tiny sliver of space feels huge now, stuffed full of all this crap she feels for him, for _them,_ no matter what she’s doing or what day it is.  
  
They’re everywhere, even when they’re not.  
  
...  
  
It helps a little that she’s getting regular positive updates from Regina about the kid’s state of mind.  
  
What helps more is that she didn’t have to ask for them; Regina just started sending her a daily text shortly after their last face-to-face altercation.  The first one was just a polite, _Henry and I had a pleasant evening,_ but it said far more than one of Regina’s scathing work-related missives from the Mayoral e-mail account ever could, in those few words.  
  
The Monday morning coin toss has her on nights from Wednesday through Friday, and the first thing that she thinks is that she’s not going to be able to pick up Henry; the fact that Graham will have to go and meet with Regina is a complete afterthought, and when he stammers something about making sure her door stays open, she just rolls her eyes.    
  
A month ago, the idea of this would’ve given her sleepless nights, but now?  
  
“She would _never_ , in her office.”  When Graham opens his mouth to protest some more, she crams the remnants of her donut in it, adding, “Trust me.  I’ve _tried_.”  
  
He can’t look at her the rest of the morning without blushing; she doesn’t pretend not to feel smug about it.  On the whole, it feels like a confirmation of their truce, and she doesn’t think about Wednesday again.  
  
...  
  
At least, not until Regina texts her _on_ Wednesday with a, _It’s generally considered polite to let someone know when you can’t make a meeting, instead of merely sending a replacement_.  
  
Emma smirks at her phone, swallowing the last of a burger in the patrol car, and fires back a quick, _i see you missed me :)_  
  
That doesn’t get a response for _hours_ , which makes her laugh on and off as she drives up and down residential streets, looking for signs of trouble that probably won’t take place.  
  
By nine, she decides to take pity on Regina, who obviously has no idea how what to say to her, and sends over, _drew a_ _week of night shifts, am sending MM to pick him up on fri., tell the kid I said hi please._  
  
Five minutes later, she’s looking at, _HI EMMA! I got an A on my science project MY EGG DIDN'T BREAK Good Night!  Yours Henry Mills_  
  
It first makes her laugh, as she puts her phone down on the passenger seat and slowly cruises down a nearly-deserted Main Street--and then, out of nowhere, it’s almost too much.  Between teasing Regina and getting one of those _you’re not here, here’s my life!_ texts from Henry, she has to park in front of the town hall for a few minutes and bite her hand to not start crying.  
  
Eventually, she sends back _way to go, kid!  Really proud of you, we’ll celebrate this weekend,_ and then turns her personal phone to silent and slips it face-down in her pocket, where she won’t have to see it.  
  
Texts about Henry’s goings-on used to be a regular part of her life out on the road.  From the moment he started being able to use Regina’s phone himself, he’d send her daily messages; sometimes it was merely a _hi_ with excessive reliance on exclamation marks, and sometimes it would be a five text update on something that mattered to him: the latest plot development on his favorite cartoon, or how he gave Miss Blanchard an apple and she really liked it.    
  
Anything, really.  
  
The thing is, she hasn’t gotten a text from the kid in months, now, and it isn’t the same.  Back then, it was a way to draw her in closer when she _had_ to be away, even if that _was_ a choice she made.    
  
Now, it’s just a reminder of how much closer she used to be.  
  
She knows that Regina will have carefully documented this moment of burgeoning genius; there is probably already a picture of the kid grinning toothlessly next to some sort of cushioned concoction carrying an egg, and as she runs a gloved hand under her nose, there isn’t a single development in his young life that she has ever wished more she could’ve been a part of.  
  
This isn’t what she wants the rest of her life to be.  That’s _her_ family, however dysfunctional it is right now, and maybe Mary Margaret is right.  
  
The really gutsy thing to do is to stick around, to put her neck out there, and fight to get it _back_.  
  
…  
  
When she gets home on Saturday morning, Mary Margaret’s conked out on the couch downstairs--no matter how regular Emma's night shifts are becoming, Mary Margaret doesn’t seem to be able to relax until Emma is home _safe_ , as if Storybrooke is dangerous--with a paperback upended on her chest.  Light is already starting to filter into the living room through the shut blinds in the kitchen as Emma takes off her boots by the door, but the house is silent and so she sneaks upstairs.  
  
The orange glow of a night light shines underneath her bedroom door, and she grips the doorknob tightly, pushing just fast enough for the hinges to not squeak.  Henry’s sprawled out flat on his back, just a tuft of brown and a few bumps to demarcate knees and feet even indicating that he’s there.  
  
It’s just the thing she wants to see after an exhaustingly long night of trying to talk a senile old woman out of climbing onto her roof to deal with the owl nesting in her chimney, and the young couple next door to her who’d thankfully woken up when she’d gotten the ladder out.  She stands by the side of the bed just to watch his outline for a few moments before deciding not to risk stirring him.  
  
Mary Margaret yawns loudly when she forgets to skip the warped step at the foot of the staircase this time around, and then pops upright, like a weasel out of a snow hole; even with bleary eyes, she’s obviously alert, and then falls back with an, “Oh, it’s just you.”  
  
“Who were you expecting?” Emma asks, not without amusement.  She heads over to the couch and lies down in the other corner, shoving at Mary Margaret’s legs until they’re more or less both on the couch, legs meeting in the middle.  
  
The blanket’s rearranged until she’s covered, and Mary Margaret yawns again before admitting, “Henry; he really wanted to wake up early to see you.”  
  
“I’ll be here when he wakes up,” Emma says, blinking at Mary Margaret a few times before nestling her head against the back of the couch and letting her eyes slip shut.  “I just need a few minutes.  But don’t let me sleep all day, okay?”  
  
“Of course not,” Mary Margaret says, in a tone so soothing that Emma sort of smiles at it and then--  
  
…  
  
“Do you think she’s going to know?”  
  
“Not unless she sees a mirror; that’s the point,” Mary Margaret whispers, just as urgently as the kid.  
  
Emma wants to wriggle her toes and stretch--the kink in her neck is bad to the point where she’s awkwardly reminded of Regina’s hand wrapping around it, a few days back--but they’re obviously plotting something, and she doesn’t want to let them know that she’s listening.  
  
Whatever they’ve done, she can almost feel the excitement radiating off Henry, and it’s not really a surprise when he just bursts out, “Can we _please_ wake her up?  It’s been hours!”  
  
“Emma’s been working all night, Henry; she’ll wake up when she’s ready,” Mary Margaret says.  It’s a gentler version of what Regina would’ve said in the same situation, actually, which is a fact that would probably horrify both of them.  
  
Emma knows she’s starting to grin, and so lets her eyes open, squinting at the two faces eagerly staring at her.  They’ve probably played some dumb prank on her while she was asleep, and Mary Margaret looks _as_ excited as Henry, before guiltily looking away when Emma catches her eye.    
  
She snorts before rubbing at her face and--  
  
The way Henry cracks up laughing makes her completely forget that she’s probably supposed to react with some sort of outrage over having a face full of whipped cream--which is now also on her hand, and because she dropped her hand in shock at how wet and cold it was, her shirt.  
  
Mary Margaret looks like she’s trying not to laugh, which is what finally gets her to work up a glare, but the minute she looks at Henry again, she just rolls her eyes and then chuckles as well.  
  
“We got you,” he says, and there’s not a single sign on his face right now that he has bad dreams about evil queens and princesses who can’t ever wake up from the plight they’re in.  
  
“Yeah, you really did,” Emma agrees, before scooping up some of the cream on her face.  “But you also left me with ammo, kid.  Rookie mistake.”  
  
His eyes widen spectacularly, and ignoring the now-worried look on Mary Margaret’s face, Emma just grins and flings some across the room.  
  
…  
  
Cleaning the living room back up takes the better part of the afternoon, but with some music and a few root beer floats waiting for them when they’re done, it doesn't really feel like a chore.    
  
When she opens the fridge for a top-up, she blinks at the top shelf--covered in very familiar, high-end Tupperware--and then turns to look at Henry.  “What’s all this?”  
  
“Mom gave it to me to take to you,” Henry says, slurping through his straw.  “She said that if you had to cook for us you’d probably set the kitchen on fire.”  
  
Mary Margaret hides laughter in a cough and says, “Your mother is a _very_ smart woman sometimes, Henry.”  
  
Emma discreetly flips her off, but then looks back at the top shelf and the three containers of definitely-not-frozen lasagna that are now sitting on it.  
  
One of them might as well be labeled _Your Move,_ she thinks, and smiles to herself before letting the fridge close behind her again.  
  
…  
  
Ruby shows up with Ashley and Sean and the baby later that night, and Mary Margaret digs out an old box labeled _Charades,_ with a cursive _Property of MMB_ underneath it.  There’s a wistful look on her face when she comes back down from the attic and brushes some of the dust of the box, and Emma puts a hand on her shoulder.  “You okay?”  
  
“My father and I used to play; just the two of us, in the months shortly after my mother passed away.  It was the only thing he could think of doing that would cheer me up.  I haven’t played in years,” Mary Margaret tells her.    
  
On the other side of the room, Ashley is trying to teach Henry how to properly support a baby’s head, while Sean digs out his iPhone and takes a few pictures without them noticing.  
  
There’s something about seeing her kid with a baby that makes her smile, but she sobers when she looks back at Mary Margaret.  “We don’t have to--”  
  
“No,” Mary Margaret says, eyes shining and then heading to the kitchen, where she opens up the game box and gives the cards a lingering touch with her fingertips.  “They’re positive memories.  I think it’s time we use this to build a few more.”  
  
...  
  
After some careful editing out of inappropriate cards by Mary Margaret, they end up with a small deck that will be more than enough to entertain Henry for some time.  Emma’s not really convinced this won’t be boring as hell for anyone over the age of eleven, but it’s the kid’s celebration and he wanted to play a game with all of _her_ friends, so here they are.  
  
The baby has fallen asleep in Henry’s arms and Emma smiles at the look of pure wonder on his face; it’s the kind of expression he should’ve had all along when browsing through that godawful fairy tale book.  Then, she clears her throat and says, “All right--we should even out the odds a little, so married couples and roommates can’t be on the same team.”  
  
“I’m with you,” Henry says, not looking up from the baby.  
  
Ruby snorts and then prods at his side.  “What if _I_ really wanted to be with Emma?”  
  
Henry actually looks stricken at the idea that he might be forced to share, but also gives in with only a slight drop of his shoulders.  Regina would be so proud.  “That’s okay, too, I guess.”  
  
“Aw, Henry, I’m kidding.  But if you’re not available, I guess I’ll lay claim to the other gorgeous guy in the room,” Ruby tells him, with a wink at Sean, who sort of freezes at the sight of it.  
  
“Knock it off,” Ashley says, laughing and then taking the baby back from Henry.  “He doesn’t know you well enough to realize you’re nothing but a sheep in wolf’s clothing, Ruby Lucas.”  
  
“That’s not--” Mary Margaret starts to say, and Emma laughs at her, which is enough to shut up her inner teacher with merely a huff.  
  
They all shuffle around until they’re not sitting next to their teammates, and then Mary Margaret explains the rules of the game.  Emma thinks of the last time she played any sort of board game; strip poker doesn’t seem to really fit the mold, here, which leaves the time that she found an old incomplete checkers set in her foster brother Jason’s room when she was about Henry’s age, and …  
  
She fights the grimace as best she can; it’s easier when she looks back at Henry’s eager face as he perches on the edge of the couch, looking for all the world like he thinks he’ll save lives if he guesses correctly.  
  
It’s a new kind of look on him, she thinks.  She and Henry play card games from time to time, and Regina likes giving him those Brain Training games on his Nintendo; every once in a while he’ll try to explain one of his console games to her, but except for the ones that involve shooting the shit out of everything in sight--which he’s definitely too young for--Emma has no real aptitude for those.  
  
Their home was one in which three people companionably did their own thing, sometimes not even in the same room.  It’s been that way ever since he got too old to build giant Lego castles and they stopped crawling around on the floor with him.  Well, not that Regina had ever _crawled_ ; she’d imperiously sit on the sofa and point out the flaws in their architectural designs, with both of them expectantly looking up to see what the verdict was.  
  
Back then, Henry had craved Regina’s approval.  
  
She looks at him now, _so_ much older already even if he is still just a kid, and then lowers her eyes to her lap.  It hadn’t just been him, back then, who’d been trying to impress the unflappable Mayor.  She, too, had been trying to show that she was _good enough_ , somehow; good for more than just the occasional mid-afternoon romp in the sack.  Good enough to be in that house, with Regina’s _son_.  
  
Consequently, the kid got the best parts of her, and Regina--  
  
A small sigh escapes her, but then Ruby digs through the pile of cards and picks the first one, and Sean programs his wristwatch as a countdown timer.  
  
“Ready?” Ruby asks, glancing around the room.  
  
There’s no point in dwelling on any of it.  Regina’s right; they can’t exactly take back what they’ve done wrong in the past.  All that’s left is doing something different in the future, and so she just catches the kid’s eye and gives him a double thumbs-up and says, “Let’s do this.”  
  
…  
  
By the time Henry gets too sleepy to keep his eyes open longer, they’re in the double digits on the score, and with a little discussion, Ruby and Sean throw their last turn so that Henry can swoop in with a victory.  Emma knows Regina would snap at Henry being humored like that-- _the real world doesn’t come with hand-outs, only what you earn_ \--and while Emma normally feels pretty much the same, maybe it’s okay to make an exception every once in a while.  
  
Henry is fundamentally different from them; the rug won’t be pulled out from under that kid any more than it already has, and the biggest losses he will have to deal with in his life will be the ones that _anyone_ does.  They don’t need to prepare him for the worst; Emma knows that there isn’t a damn thing in the world she wouldn’t do to keep it from ever happening to him.  
  
Out of all the things to have in common with Regina, an absolute dedication to keeping him safe isn’t a bad one; and, it occurs to her, as she ruffles Henry’s hair and sends him up to go brush his teeth, maybe that’s the kind of thing she should just start saying out loud.  
  
…  
  
“Is Henry--” Regina asks, urgent enough that Emma smiles faintly.  
  
“Would a _hello_ kill you?”  
  
It actually earns her a soft laugh.  “Touché, Miss Swan.”  
  
“The kid’s great.  We spent the night playing Charades with a few people; he had a blast,” Emma then says, sucking in some of the cold outside air; it’s icy enough to make her feel really bright and lucid, which can only be a good thing in a conversation with Regina.  “He’s off to bed now, though.  Long day.”  
  
Tugging her hat over her head a little more firmly and then shoving her hand in her pocket, she wanders down to the end of the block and then stares at the sky.  
  
“And you called--” Regina asks, after a few moments.  
  
“Just to tell you that we played a game, and he had fun, I guess.”   Emma can see her own breath floating away from her, roughly in the direction of the Mayoral manor.  “What was your favorite game to play when you were a kid?  I mean like--a board game, or some other group game.”  
  
For a second, she thinks Regina is going to sneer something at her about how between her steady obligations of learning how to crochet and be a lady, there wasn’t any time for boardgames, but Regina just says, “Backgammon.”  
  
“ _Backgammon_.  God, were you born thirty years old?” Emma can’t help but roll her eyes. “Didn’t you ever play anything juvenile like, I don’t know, _The Game of Life_?”  
  
“I’m not familiar,” Regina says.  “In any event, there are only so many games that work with two players.  Backgammon happened to be the one that my father favored.”  
  
“Ah,” Emma says, and then pokes at the corner of her mouth with her tongue.  It will snow soon; it’s shocking that it hasn’t already, and the air feels like if she just wills it enough, a curtain of it will pillow down on her.  It’s one of those nights.  If she was more sentimental, she’d call it magical.  “Yeah, that’s sort of how I got really good at Solitaire.”  
  
She doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding so pathetic, but it kind of does, and Regina makes a near-silent noise that makes her feel very young; like she’s back to being ten years old, with Jason’s old checkers set, getting punched in the shoulder for stealing something when she’d only been admiring it.  
  
“Did you receive the food?” Regina asks, snapping her out of the unpleasant memory; it’s asked kind of tersely, like it was in fact a giant pain in the ass to give it to Henry, but that’s just... Regina.  It’s kind of endearing, how she acts like kindness is the thing that will kill her.  
  
“I did.  Thanks for cooking.”  
  
“I didn’t realize you were so partial to lasagna.  I might have--”  
  
“What?” Emma asks.  
  
“Made it more regularly,” Regina says, a little hastily.  “Not that I suspect it would’ve made much difference.  I’m surprised you even remembered what it tasted like, given how you hoover food down.”  
  
Emma smiles faintly.  “When you have to fight for every scrap, you learn not to linger.”  
  
That earns her a sigh--and her smile widens at the idea that somehow, her shitty childhood is enough to make Regina frustrated; she’s heard this same sort of noise before when a problem presents itself that she just _can’t_ fix.  
  
“Nobody’s going to take your food away from you now, Emma,” Regina finally murmurs.  
  
“I know; but we all have some … habits that are hard to let go of.”  
  
They fall silent briefly, and Emma feels her cheeks start to crackle with cold; it won’t be long now until she’s actually shivering, but the conversation has done what she wanted it to.  It’s somehow the exact right bookend to the evening, spending just a few minutes talking to someone who didn’t have any sort of rose-colored upbringing either, after spending a night with purely happy people who can all fondly share about the stuff their parents used to do with them.  
  
“How’s your neck?” Regina asks, in a soft tone of voice; as if throttling Emma also falls under the bracket of ‘habit not easy to break’.  
  
Emma rubs at it briefly and says, “It’s fine.  You really only--”  
  
“I didn’t _only_ anything,” Regina counters.  “It shouldn’t have happened.  It won’t happen again.”  
  
“Well, no kidding; if you ever touch me like that again I’m taking Henry and heading to Boston,” Emma agrees, letting her hand fall back to her side.  “I thought that went without saying.”  
  
Regina swallows and then says, “I appreciate the sentiment, but it _won’t_ happen again.  And for the record, that is an assurance _I_ would like to hear about your tendencies to destroy my belongings every time you can’t control your temper.”  
  
Emma cringes at the reminder.  “Look, about the tree--I was really drunk, and--”  
  
"And two days later, you smashed a decanter full of alcohol against my office walls,” Regina finishes.  “Sober, I might add.”  
  
Emma almost bristles at the idea that these things are really _comparable,_ but there are memories inside of her that say exactly that.  It’s the shock of it; the abrupt outward push of emotion that becomes a tangible, real thing.  It’s never knowing when it might happen, like living with a grenade that might go off at any moment.    
  
“You’re right,” she says, closing her eyes for a few moment.  “We both need to learn to not do that.  Any of it, I mean.”  
  
“As I said--”  
  
"I don’t think that’s a promise you can make, unless you’re actually expecting me to never bring up anything that might upset you again,” Emma says.  “I mean, what do you think it would do to _Henry_ if he saw either of us like that?  I don’t want him to be afraid of me, the way I used to--”  
  
She forces herself to stop talking abruptly when Regina’s breath catches, and then just waits for a decision, one way or the other.  
  
“What do you propose?” Regina asks, but it’s quiet, not angry.  
  
“I don’t know.  Maybe _we_ need to be talking to Archie, too; at least until we’ve covered all the really bad crap,” Emma says, with a sigh.  “Worst case scenario, he can bodily throw himself between us if we decide fisticuffs are the solution.”  
  
“I’m not really in the habit of inviting anyone in this town to judge me,” Regina says, carefully.  “My office demands that--”  
  
“Regina--we trust this guy with our _kid_.”  
  
She can count the seconds of silence on the nearby tick of the clocktower, and then hears Regina say, “Fine.  I’ll make an appointment, but this stays between _us_.  I don’t need Mary Margaret Blanchard pitying me, and I especially don’t want _Henry_ to--”  
  
“I agree.  I mean, we’re on the same page here.  This is embarrassing as hell, and Henry doesn’t need to know about it.  I don’t want to get his hopes up about any of this, you know.  Us getting better, or whatever.  Not when he’s only just snapping out of the fairy tale stuff and there aren’t any guarantees.”  
  
“You’ll have to let me know about your schedule,” Regina says, after a moment.  
  
“I’m on days this week, so--whenever suits you.”  
  
She can hear the flicker of pages, and knows Regina is flipping through her desk calendar.  The idea of it is oddly comforting; no matter how much everything is in disarray, Regina will find a way to schedule life around the chaos.  
  
“All right.  Actually--there is something else I wish to discuss with you, so why don’t you stop by my office on Tuesday and I’ll see if we can slot in the appointment afterwards?”  
  
“Is this city business, police business, or us business?” Emma asks, pushing away from the lamp post she’s been leaning against and heading back to Mary Margaret’s.  
  
“Believe it or not, all of the above,” Regina says.  “I really would prefer not to discuss it further over the phone because it’s of a sensitive nature--”  
  
“Can I get a hint, at least?” Emma asks, frowning.  
  
Regina hesitates briefly, but then says, “No.  I need a few more days to collate some information and then I will tell you everything.”  
  
“You know this is going to drive me crazy for the next few days, right?” Emma checks.  
  
Regina sounds like she’s smiling, when she answers.  “I’m sure you’ll find a way to cope; perhaps you can take it out on that owl that you’ll be fishing out of Mrs. Nettle’s chimney later this week.”  
  
“ _How_ do you even know--”  
  
“I have my ways, Deputy Swan.  Good night,” Regina says, and hangs up.  
  
Emma glowers at her phone for a few seconds, and then laughs and shakes her head, before heading back upstairs into the heat.


	10. Chapter 10

She doesn’t think she will, but she makes it to Monday night; by then, her legs are wiggling with so much nervous energy that Mary Margaret gives her an incredibly pointed look and says, “It’s a good thing I don’t get motion sickness.”  
  
“Sorry,” Emma mutters, but after a few minutes of trying to contain that undying need to _know_ , she just flies off the couch and grabs the nearest jacket and hat she can find.  
  
At the door, she turns to look at Mary Margaret and says, “I’m just gonna--”  
  
“Regina?”  
  
Emma sort of sighs and sweeps her hair out of her eyes.  “Yeah.”  
  
Mary Margaret looks at her a little slyly and then says, “Should I wait up for you?”  
  
“God,” Emma exhales, before laughing a little nervously and firmly settling the beanie that Mary Margaret knitted her on her head.  “No, but only because it’s kind of ridiculous that you ever do.”  
  
“Good luck either way,” Mary Margaret calls out, as she’s already out the door, rubbing her hands together to warm them before she has to start scraping snow off the Bug.  
  
…  
  
Regina barely even looks surprised, as Emma bounces from one foot to the next on the freshly shoveled walkway, and then just glances at her watch.  “Well _done_ , Deputy.  I was expecting you at least eighteen hours before now.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, and then says, “It’s fucking _freezing,_ do you--”  
  
“No, of course.  Come in,” Regina says, opening the door wider just long enough for Emma to squeeze inside.  She hangs up her own coat this time, and then continues flexing her fingers and curling them into fists as she follows Regina to her study.  
  
“Drink?” Regina asks.  
  
“You think I’ll need one?” Emma asks, and watches as Regina hesitates for a few seconds and then turns on her heels.  
  
“I have a Merlot breathing in the kitchen.  If you think your palate will survive it--”  
  
Emma sort of manages a half-smile.  “Still trying to class me up, huh?”  
  
“I don’t believe in surrender,” Regina says; before Emma can point out that's kind of a load of crap in light of recent events, she’s already headed for the wine.  
  
The fire’s on, giving the room a softer glow than it normally has; Regina’s taste in decor has always felt both clinical and sinister, but somehow the faint orange and yellow light cast over them now makes them feel almost inviting.  She wanders around the room, looking at the few paintings that are up--as if she’s never seen them before--and is acutely reminded of the first time Regina brought her to the house.  
  
She’d felt like she had when she was brought out to talk to the parole board, a few years earlier.  Regina had eventually given her a glass of cider, eyeing her reaction carefully, and when she’d declared it “pretty damn good”, she’d been tugged upstairs for, well, something she knew more about than interior decorating.  
  
“Here,” Regina’s voice says, behind her; she actually jumps and nearly knocks into her, and the glass of wine being held out to her tips precariously for a second.  The pure white rug they’re standing on wouldn’t survive any spillage, and so she exhales in relief when she takes hold of the glass with a mostly steady hand.  
  
Regina assesses her carefully, and then swoops around her again to head to the desk.  “I won’t force you to wait any longer.  Have a seat.”  
  
She heads over to the front of the desk herself, before slowly sitting down in one of the designer chairs in front of it.  Fancy isn’t her thing for a reason; it’s really hard to slouch on, or so she’s learned in the last few years.  
  
Regina leans back in her own chair and the familiar clunk of two heels being kicked off sounds a second later.  The whole scene, somehow, is reminiscent of the kinds of evenings they used to spend together, although Emma used to feel a little less like a gun was about to go off on those.  
  
She takes a sip of wine--it’s rich, heavy, and much better than she was expecting--and then looks at Regina expectantly.  
  
“You’ll recall how, a few weeks ago, I might’ve insinuated that you were... having affairs,” Regina says, running her fingertip along the rim of her own wine glass as she stares at the fireplace.  
  
Emma blinks at her and says, “Uh.  Yeah; it’s not the kind of thing you just... forget, but I don’t really see what it has to do with the Sheriff’s Department or the city.  I mean, I’m not the one who slept with Graham, so...”  
  
Regina directs an impatient look at her.  “You _will_ , if you let me explain.”  
  
“All right,” Emma says, carefully.  She shifts in the chair, until the edge of it is digging in her back less.  
  
Regina takes a delicate sip of her wine and then, casually, says, “I’m sure it won’t surprise you to hear that I ran a background check on you, when I decided that you should meet Henry.”  
  
It’s not at _all_ what Emma is expecting Regina to say and she gapes at her openly for a moment.  “You had me _profiled?_ ”  
  
“For God’s sake, don’t act so scandalized.  I knew nothing about you, aside from the fact that your driving skills were suspect and...” Regina gives her a look that makes her gulp.  “Some of your _other_ skills, shall we say, were less so.”  
  
Emma fights the urge to blush at the insinuation.  “Yeah, and asking questions about my past wasn’t an option because--”  
  
“Because, Miss Swan, you were too busy trying to prove to me that this was just a casual _fling_ to ever answer any of those seriously.  I don’t need to remind you that ours wasn’t exactly a conversational courtship,” Regina counters, and then somewhat defensively adds, “You would’ve done the same, for Henry’s sake.”  
  
Emma doesn’t protest the suggestion, but does glare, after sending a questioning glance at the white envelope that lies between them on the middle of Regina’s desk.. “So what, there’s stuff in there about, uh--well, what _do_ you know?”  
  
“There isn’t much I don’t know,” Regina says, plainly enough for Emma to not feel the acute rush of humiliation and discomfort that comes with any real reminder of her past.  Or, well, it’s there--but it’s dulled, somehow.  “And that is why, when I received the first of these envelopes, I knew that the contents weren’t... from before.”  
  
The envelope is slid her way and she picks it up before peeling the lip open.  When she opens it up and flips it, out spill a stack of pictures of...  
  
“Wait,” she says, reaching for the top few; in them, she’s at a bar, having drinks with a taller brunette.  She’s leaning in very close to the woman, actually, and as she flips through more and more of them, she realizes what she’s looking at and drops them again.  “What the _hell?_ ”  
  
“I’ve spent the last few days collating these,” Regina says, with a kind of preternatural calm that Emma can’t, for the life of her, mimic.  “These were all part of what I consider to be the first set.  I received them approximately three months after you gave up your room at Miss Blanchard’s and moved in with us.”  
  
Emma brushes the top few pictures aside and finds a few different ones; in these, she’s bodily moving the brunette into a motel room, and they’re so close together that, yeah.  The pictures can be easily misconstrued to be something they’re not.  
  
“This isn’t--it’s not real.  I mean, it’s real, but it’s not what it looks like,” she says, knowing she sounds shell-shocked and then looking at Regina in even more disbelief.  “Wait--the _first_?  How many of these did you--”  
  
Regina bends down and then lifts up a _box_ full of envelopes and sets it on the table.  
  
“A few,” she says.  
  
“Jesus _Christ_.  That’s just... And it never occurred to you to just _ask_ me--”  
  
“I made efforts to determine if the pictures were doctored or not, and upon finding that they weren’t...”  Regina trails off, and then sighs deeply before saying, “When I got them, my first thought wasn’t of myself.  It was of Henry, and what it would do to _him_ if these were real; if I had no choice but to acknowledge they existed.”  
  
Emma feels herself starting to shake with anger.  “So, what, you just held onto them for _years_ and thought--”  
  
“I wasn’t _looking_ for a great romance,” Regina cuts her off, voice equally sharp.  “I’ve _had_ one of those, and there is nothing in this world that could ever replace it, but-- _Henry_ shouldn’t have to lose a chance at a real, functional family just because you and I never got around to having a talk about _monogamy_.”  
  
Emma clamps her lips together and then stares at the pictures again.    
  
“I believed that--what we had together worked,” Regina adds, more calmly, but the way her fingernails are digging into the arms of her chair betray that this isn’t any easier to say than it is to hear.  “Whatever it was; whatever it became.  It wasn’t like my relationship with Daniel, but you managed to make me feel less alone, and your bond with Henry...”  
  
“You’re saying that you didn’t love me,” Emma says, not surprised at all by how the words wrench themselves out of her mouth.  “I was fine for playing house with, so the kid could have a normal family, but you--you weren’t _ever_ really available.”  
  
“Love,” Regina echoes, after a moment, before staring out at the fireplace.  “Tell me--is that what you had in mind when you stormed into my office and then realized that the only way to win an argument with me was by kissing me, Emma?”  
  
“Well, no,” Emma says, and then sighs after a second.  “That was just--”  
  
Her mind wants to supply _hot_ , but it doesn’t feel like the right thing to say, and so she just rubs at her forehead for a few seconds.  
  
“Just _what_?”  
  
Emma closes her eyes and mumbles, “I just wanted to prove a point.  And then you ended up being basically the best sex I’d ever had, probably because I _really_ disliked you.  After that... I wanted to see if it was just a one-off.  And then we just sort of kept doing it, because … it kept being really good.”  
  
Regina, to her surprise, just sort of smirks at her, when she warily opens her eyes again.  “Don’t worry, my own feelings weren’t dissimilar.  There was something very satisfying about … putting you in your place, shall we say.”  
  
Emma knows the tips of her ears are coloring, but figures her hair is probably hiding it, so she just shrugs.  “Yeah, so.  We both got something out of it.”  
  
“Exactly.   _Something_.  But let’s not pretend it was more than it was.”  
  
“It didn’t _stay_ that way, though.”  It hurts a little to have to add, “Not for me, anyway.  By the time I moved in with you, it was... I don’t know.”  
  
“Yes, I don’t know, either.  I went from--deliberately starting a family with a man I’d been with for almost six years at that point, to... sleeping with a constantly absent twenty five year old who occasionally drunkenly fell over in the bathroom after a night out with her friends.”  Regina sighs, before looking at Emma a little pointedly.  “What was I meant to think?  That a proposal would follow in due course?”  
  
Emma looks away; it cuts, even though it’s not untrue.  “I’m _never_ going to be Daniel, but that doesn’t change that you kept asking me to stay and I kept doing it.”  
  
Regina looks at her with the slightest of head tilts.  “No one had ever asked you to stay before, had they.”  
  
Emma shrugs helplessly.  
  
Regina’s mouth turns down a little  “It wasn’t about love.  Not then.  It was about you, and your stupid, noble intentions; your desire to always do the _right_ thing, even when you don’t believe in it.”  
  
“And what--living with you, eventually agreeing to do the whole partnership thing--that _wasn’t_ the right thing?” Emma demands.  
  
The room is silent for a few seconds, as Regina gazes back into the fire and Emma stares at the pictures some more.  
  
“I can count on one hand the number of times you’ve brought up _love_ ,” Regina finally says, eyes fluttering closed before she looks back at Emma and dryly adds, “You have a particular tendency to only blurt those words out when you’re--”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Emma says, shortly; it doesn’t stop her face from heating up, though.  “And, for the record, that doesn’t mean I don’t mean it; just that, I don’t know, it just kind of slips out, then.”  
  
“I might have believed you, had I not already been operating under the assumption that you were--well.”  
  
The pictures lay between them, and Emma has to bite down on her lip hard to not reach over and start ripping them to pieces.  
  
“God.  You really never had any faith in me at all, did you?”  
  
“It wasn’t about _faith_.  It was--I _decided_ that I could live with this; that it wasn’t worth ending our relationship over.  Not when you cared for Henry so obviously, and not as long as I remained... of interest to you also,” Regina says, her cheeks reddening slightly.  
  
Emma feels the low coil of anger twist in her stomach again.  “You know that’s not _normal,_ right?  To be so... fucking _pragmatic_ about something like this.”  
  
“Normal?”  Regina’s obviously rankled, but it’s not really by Emma’s reaction.  The look she gives the pictures on the desk is one of pure loathing.  “I’m sure Dr. Hopper will tell us tomorrow that there are a _great_ many things not normal about both of us.”    
  
“God,” Emma exhales, unable to keep the harshness out of her voice; she throws back the last of her wine and then puts the empty glass back on the desk.  “All this crap about how you thought _I_ was only in it for Henry..."  
  
“You make it out to be more simple than it was,” Regina cuts in, pressing her fingertips against her temples for a few seconds.  “ _None_ of this was straightforward.  There were many times when I considered doing what I could to push you away, to send you off to--”  A vague gesture at the pictures says enough.  “But I couldn’t.  You were a part of this family, however much you did or didn’t want to be.”  
  
Emma knows she shouldn’t, but she rolls her eyes and scoffs.  “Yeah.  You couldn’t, until you decided to fuck the Sheriff to send me a message.”  
  
Regina’s eyes glimmer at her for a second, but then she just looks away.  
  
“I always thought--eventually, I’d make a demand that even you, with all your eagerness to not disappoint, would just balk at.  But when I asked, you simply gave up your job.  I watched you squirm for weeks, completely unsettled by the idea of living here.  It was obvious you weren’t happy, and I could no longer pretend that your happiness didn’t _matter_ to me.”  Regina lets out a pained, empty little sound; it’s almost a laugh, but not really.  “Of course, you would’ve never left us-- that would’ve been admitting defeat, and you don’t know how to give up any more than I do.”  
  
Emma stares at the desk, unwillingly remembering those early weeks of whittling away time by strolling around the town, finding it too small and contained to be any sort of real escape from a house she now really and truly lived in.  She _had_ missed the roads; she’d missed having somewhere to go _to_.  She’d felt trapped; and it had only just started getting a little bit better when...  
  
“What do you call what you did with Graham, if not giving _up_?” she finally asks, forcing herself to look at Regina again.  
  
Regina exhales so slowly that Emma can both hear and see her do it.    
  
“What I thought was necessary,” she then says, before running her hands up and down her forearms and looking away.  “You can't keep something that doesn't want to be kept.  Not indefinitely.  I only realized how wrong I was about... I didn't understand that you _did_ want to be kept and  _how_ much I wanted to keep you--"

“Until I walked in on you and Graham,” Emma says, rubbing at her eyes and then sighing.  "Yeah."

A thick silence stretches between them for a moment and then Regina's eyes grow distant, an incredibly sad smile playing around her lips.  "There's an adage in that ridiculous book Henry is obsessed with about how... if you truly love something, you ought to set it free and see if it will come back to you."  Her eyes close briefly.  "A sentiment clearly written by some imbecile who has never lost someone they truly loved."

It's the eighteenth time Regina has tried to explain; and while the explanation doesn't make what happened any better, the flash of self-loathing in Regina's eyes somehow does.  Probably because that's a really familiar sensation, but not one she ever expected to be able to share with Regina, who has always felt somehow more adult, more capable, and in some indescribable way, maybe too  _good_ to be slumming it with the likes of Emma.  

She'll never feel that kind of imbalance again, and that's an unexpected relief after months of feeling like she could never really belong in Storybrooke.

Emma takes a few seconds, and then leans forward again, bracing her elbows on the desk and looking at the pictures again.  “These are--God.  Sometimes, you catch more flies with honey than you do with... uh, a flyswatter.  That’s all they are.  I know where my strengths lie, and I didn’t mind using a little flirtation and the promise of a hell of a lot more to get my marks.  It made me really good at my job, but it didn’t make me a _hooker,_ Regina.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, I never thought you did it as part of your job,” Regina says, looking over at her in a vaguely impatient manner, even though her eyes still betray a lot of grief.  “You were gone for long stretches of time, dear.  I merely assumed that you’d occasionally turn on the charm while waiting out one of your... hunts.”  
  
“Right,” Emma says, before she sort of sighs and laughs at the same time.  “I don’t think you’ve ever accused me of being _charming_ before.”  
  
Regina’s nose crinkles in a way that’s acutely endearing, and then she murmurs, “I wasn’t exactly in the _habit_ of sleeping with twenty-two year olds when we met, Miss Swan.  Obviously you have your moments.”  
  
Emma sort of rolls her eyes at that statement and then lifts up the top picture, flipping it over on all sides.  “So.  Who the hell would send these to you?”  
  
“I don’t know,” Regina says, also leaning forward, her voice dropping back into its professional register.  “They always came in white, unmarked envelopes; no postage attached.  I’ve had the envelopes checked for fingerprints, but they’ve come up empty.”  
  
Emma nods and stacks them back together.  “Okay.  Do you mind if I--”  
  
“No, of course not.  It’s why I asked you to come over.  There isn’t anyone else in Storybrooke I’d want to investigate any sort of evidence that suggests that... my _wife_ might be cheating on me,” Regina says, her jaw tightening in a flash.  
  
“I don’t know; it might’ve gotten you the pity vote in the re-election, if word got out,” Emma says, as lightly as she can.  
  
Regina stares at her for a few moments, before tapping a nail against one of the pictures.  “I can’t blame these for _everything_ that has happened between us, but whoever sent them to me did so knowing it would hurt our relationship.  That makes this intensely private to me, Miss Swan--and I would expect you to feel the same way.”  
  
Emma shoves the pictures back into the envelope, and then slides the flap shut again and lets the envelope sit on the desk.  “I’ll see what I can do.”  
  
Regina’s “thank you” is almost inaudible, but all the more meaningful for it; she knows the woman across from her well enough by now to realize that this situation, with the pictures, is going to turn into an obsession insofar as it hasn’t already.  The fact that she’s trusting Emma to handle it, rather than marching all over town to cash in favors, says a lot.  
  
Emma looks at their empty glasses and says, “Is there any wine left?”  
  
Regina sighs, in that bizarrely fond way she has of sighing--it’s the non-verbal equivalent to _really, Miss Swan_ \--and then gets up, but stops at Emma’s side and looks at her seriously.    
  
“However unprepared for this relationship _you_ felt, I had a son to worry about and... more reasons to be wary of anything serious than you could have ever had.  I don’t know what made you run all these years, but the idea of suffering another loss like...”  She clamps her lips together briefly, eyes abruptly haunted, and then slowly says, “I didn’t feel I had any choice but to protect Henry and myself.  Everything I did, however misguided, was with that goal in mind.”  
  
Emma sighs.  “I’ve never been out to hurt you, Regina.  Either of you.”  
  
“Oh, Emma,” Regina says, extending a finger that twists around a lock of her hair for just a second, before letting it go again.  “It wasn’t about what you were doing.  It was about you could _potentially_ do.  After all, nothing is more risky than letting someone else take hold of your heart.”  
  
Regina’s hand retracts slowly, and Emma arrests it before it can pull back all the way.   “Can I ask you something?”  
  
“By all means.”  
  
“How come you don’t wear the ring?” Emma asks.  It sounds a little pathetic, now that she’s vocalized it, but she suddenly just needs to know; it’s almost as if it’s the one final piece of information missing from this puzzle, and when Regina’s eyes hover on their joined hands, she knows she’s about to get an answer.  
  
“Because,” Regina finally says, and it’s more of a sigh than a word.  “I made a very public, very visible commitment once before, but with us... All that mattered was that you and I knew what we were doing.  A ring seemed superfluous; for our guests, rather than for us.”  
  
It’s an unexpectedly thoughtful answer, and Emma realizes with a pang that she is going to have to accept that everything that’s happened between them before is no less valid now.  They’re still married; neither the commitment nor the sentiment is any less real than it was four months ago.    
  
“Where’s yours?” Regina asks, after a moment, turning her hand over until she can see Emma’s bare finger. “You took it off when--”  
  
“Not all the way,” Emma admits, untangling their hands and then reaching under her sweater for the chain there; when she’s pulled it up enough, she holds out her palm to show the ring to Regina.  “Couldn’t bring myself to do it.”  
  
Regina studies her for a few more moments, before lowering her eyes to the floor--where she’s standing on stockings and Emma has her boots crossed at the ankle.  
  
“What?”  Emma asks, quietly.  
  
“Do you--” Regina starts, before hesitating and then sighing in obvious frustration.  “ _Will_ you be able to forgive what I did?  I know the things I did can’t be undone, but I need to know if you’ll be able to move past them.”  
  
Emma feels a lump swell in her throat and rubs at it for a few moments, before looking back up at Regina--who is looking back urgently--and then getting to her feet.  
  
Her stomach knots, as she figures it always will when she thinks of that day.  When she reaches for Regina’s face and cups her cheek, thumb pressing into it a little harder than she intends to, she feels Regina freeze against her fingertips--like she’s bracing herself for this being the very last time they’ll ever touch.  
  
It looks like it’s unbearable for Regina, and, fuck, it really doesn’t feel any better on her end.  
  
“It’ll take time,” Emma starts, before hesitating and glancing down briefly.  “We don’t trust each other much.  You haven’t trusted me for years now, and I don’t know how to trust you after that shit you pulled with Graham.  Even if I _get_ that it won’t happen again, I still can’t...”  
  
“I understand,” Regina says, quietly, and Emma feels her shoulders slump a little when she realizes that, yeah, Regina really _does_ understand what it’s like to feel this way.  Even if that understanding is built on illusion, it nonetheless would’ve felt very real.  
  
She sighs and then looks at Regina firmly.  “You have to promise me it’ll be different.  No more secrets.  If someone sends you pictures of me doing something that I shouldn’t be doing, you tell me.  I make you feel crappy, you tell me.  I spend more time making Henry happy than _you_ , and you _tell me_.  Okay?”  
  
She feels, more than sees, the small nod Regina gives her, and then looks at her hand and--if she just inches it forward a little more, she’ll be running her fingers through Regina’s hair, which has always been their preferred way of initiating any sort of kissing.  It’s strange, to feel so confounded and yet at home at the same time; strange and yet familiar.  
  
That’s what six years of Regina have always felt like, and Emma closes her eyes for a second before darting forward and pressing her forehead against Regina’s.  
  
“We need to start over,” she then says, swallowing past the words.  “See if we can actually get to know each other, this time around, instead of just fucking a lot because that’s easy and always good and--well.  You know.”  
  
“You want us to... date,” Regina says, cautiously, after a few seconds.  “As if we’re strangers.”  
  
“We might as well be, Regina,” Emma says, pulling back a little and then brushing some stray strands of hair away from Regina’s forehead; the small frown that knits between Regina’s eyebrows is one that she smudges away with her thumb.  “Two strangers who just happen to be married to each other.”  
  
After a moment, Regina smiles wryly.  “Well.  Dr. Hopper is going to have a field day with us.”  
  
Emma smiles back, in a way that actually doesn’t hurt at all.  “I’d say that I’m sure he’s heard worse, but it’s fucking _Storybrooke_.  The worst he could’ve heard--”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t bet on that,” Regina says, with a light shudder, before crossing her arms loosely over her waist.   “I’m sure his consultations at the Memorial asylum result in far more disturbing sessions than anything we have to offer.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re probably right,” Emma asks, after a second, and then looks back at the envelope waiting for her on the desk.  “Before I head off--any ideas on who in this town hates you enough to do this?”  
  
Regina looks she might laugh a little, as if the answer is _just about everyone_ , but then just runs a hand through her hair and says, “Had I wanted to talk to anyone and admit to the existence of these pictures, my first destination would’ve been the pawn shop.”  
  
“God,” Emma mutters.  “Yeah, no kidding.”  
  
“In the alternative, I would’ve talked to Jefferson Lewis--”  
  
“Who?”  Emma asks, frowning.  
  
Regina twists her lips and then says, “A very long story that precedes your arrival in Storybrooke.  If you find you need to know more, I’d suggest talking to Kathryn.”  
  
“Okay.  Anyone else?”  
  
Regina hesitates, and then her face draws very tight for a few seconds; Emma almost reaches out to steady her, but then she lets go of her breath and looks at Emma with an unconvincing, superficial kind of calm.  
  
“Yes.  My mother.”


	11. Chapter 11

The sign on the pawn shop’s door indicates that it’s open, but when Emma steps inside--bell ringing above her head--there isn’t anyone manning the register at the back of the one-room store.  She carefully takes a few more steps inside, looking at the assortment of indescribable crap that make up his inventory; walls are lined with mirrors and birdcages and ancient-looking weaponry that she can’t identify beyond “sword” and “not a sword”.    
  
Several candelabra hang overhead, along with a set of lantern-like lamps that look distinctly east Asian to her, and there is one shelf that just has music boxes on it.  The shelves behind the counter are even more bizarre; they’re lined with the kinds of bottles that an old-time candy shop might use to stock things like jelly beans and cinnamon pillows, but his are all full of strange, colorful liquids.  
  
“Die,” Gold’s oddly lyrical voice rings out, from the side of the room.  The curtain he’s just stepped through billows behind him, and his cane taps on the wooden floor as he moves to stand in front of the bottles, holding a kettle full of steaming water..  
  
“Excuse me?” Emma says, frowning and taking a few more steps forward.  
  
“The bottles you’re looking at, Deputy Swan,” Mr. Gold says, more slowly; his lips curl up into a grin.  “Textile dyes.”  
  
“Ah,” Emma says, feeling immediately idiotic.  “Right.”  
  
“Somehow, I suspect you’re not looking to make a purchase,” Gold says, setting his cane against the back of the counter and putting down the kettle.  “What is it I can do for you today, dearie?”  
  
The fact that he’s being straightforward about her presence in his shop makes her more wary than, say, if he’d sort of danced around the idea of having a real conversation with her.  The few times she’s seen him conduct business--a key moment had been Regina’s forceful intervention in his rent increase on the nuns--there had been nothing literal about anything that had come out of his mouth.  
  
Somehow, she gets the feeling that he _knows_ why she’s here--which is obviously not possible, given that the only person who knows that Regina even told her is, well, _Regina_.  
  
She reaches the counter and stands in front of it, arms crossed over her chest; one of the envelopes is tucked inside of her coat, and it crinkles loudly at the gesture.  “Answer a few questions.”  
  
Gold assesses her carefully and then slowly smiles again.  “I’ll answer yours, if you just answer one of mine.”  
  
Emma can’t help a small roll of the eyes.  “Not really how being interrogated by the police works, Mr. Gold.”  
  
“Oh, but it is, Deputy Swan; when the police are in _my shop_ on a fishing expedition, without probable cause,” he says, smile widening.  “Which--if you had any, I assume you’d be requesting my presence at the station.  No?”  
  
What a slick bastard.  
  
She takes a second, but the envelope itches at her skin even through her second, and then sighs, leaning her hip into the counter.  “What do you want?”  
  
“It’s quite simple, really,” Mr. Gold says; his tongue flicks out to lick at his lips and then he leans away from the counter, gathering two tea cups from underneath it and carefully placing them out.  “The Mayor once... took something dear from me.  I’d merely like to know where it is, now.”  
  
Emma tilts her head and then glances around the shop again.  “Something _dear_?  What was it?”  
  
As she turns back to Gold, she sees his hand shake as he pours himself some tea into one of the cups.  A small chink on the rim is all that separates it from the other cup, yet when he moves the stream of water over to the second cup, his hand steadies out again and his voice is clean and sharp when he says, “ _That_ is none of your business.”  
  
“Maybe not, but if I don’t know what I’m looking for, I can’t exactly _find_ it for you,” Emma says, raising her eyebrows.  
  
Gold’s eyes glimmer with something akin to rage when he briefly looks at her, but then he puts the kettle to the side and straightens again, his fingers curling around the chipped cup and lifting it off the counter.  “You raise a fair point, Deputy, so here is all you need to know.  Find out whatever happened to dear Henry’s _nanny_ , and I will gladly answer all of your questions.”  
  
Emma leans forward, placing her palms flat on the counter.  “How about I just promise you I’ll ask and you answer my questions _now?_ ”  
  
The corners of Gold’s mouth lift above the rim of the cup, right before he takes a sip.  “You’d owe me a favor, Deputy.”  
  
Emma fights the urge to sigh.  “I don’t make promises I don’t intend to keep, Mr. Gold.”  
  
“Yes,” Gold agrees.  “Your word is … golden, shall we say?  But your darling wife’s--”  
  
“That’s my problem, and I’ll get you an honest answer to your question, no matter what,” Emma says, not liking the way his entire expression darkens at merely a mention of Regina.  Whatever the hell has been going on between these two, it’s something far worse than a fight over control of this town.  
  
Only after Gold says, “Very well--you have a deal”, does it occur to her that she might’ve just landed herself in the middle of it.  Not the deal she wanted to make--but that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t have to make good on his part of it all the same.  
  
She shifts, and then tugs down the zipper on her coat, until she can get the envelope out.  “This look familiar to you?”  
  
“It’s a white envelope, Deputy.  I do believe I’ve seen one before, once or twice in my life,” Gold says, with just enough sarcasm for her to ball one of her hands into a fist.  “If you’re asking if I’ve seen that particular one, I’d have to say I don’t know.  What’s in it?”  
  
“Pictures of me in Augusta,” Emma says.  
  
Gold looks at her with barely hidden amusement.  “Dearie, if we’d ever been in _Augusta_ together, I’m _sure_ I’d remember.”  
  
“Cut the crap, Gold,” Emma snaps, before shoving the envelope back into her jacket.  “Did you pay someone to follow me around for the last few years, while I was working?”  
  
Gold’s expression masks over briefly, and then shifts into surprise.  “Whatever would I have done that for?”  
  
“You and the Mayor aren’t exactly the best of friends; I wouldn’t put it past you to put a tail on me in the hopes of screwing with her,” Emma says, but even as she says the words, she can see Gold’s eyes turn sly.  
  
“Ah.  So--someone has been attempting to meddle with your relationship, and Regina’s told you to come running to me; the _big bad Mr. Gold._ Her nemesis, no?” he says, fingers dancing against the side of the cup before he puts it down.  “And what, pray tell, would I gain from destroying her relationship with you?”  
  
“A vote,” Emma points out.  “You were the one who said it, the last we talked.”  
  
“Ah, but you weren’t in a position to influence any key votes in the mayoral election when those pictures were taken,” Gold counters smartly.  
  
“Okay, fine, so maybe you just wanted to _hurt_ Regina,” Emma says, tugging her zipper back up with an angry yank.  “Just answer the damn question.   _Did_ you take these pictures?”  
  
“Can’t say that I have much of an interest in photography, Deputy.  If that’s your angle, you might want to look elsewhere,” Mr. Gold says, his eyes glimmering with barely repressed mirth.  
  
Emma knows she’s being tossed about like a rag doll, but grits her teeth and stares him down.  “So maybe you didn’t do it personally; did you _pay_ someone to follow me around or not?”  
  
“No,” Mr. Gold says, before showing her a flash of teeth that might be a grin.  “Why bother sabotaging something, when the parties to it are so delightfully adept at destroying it themselves?”  
  
The urge to beat the man with his own cane is suddenly overwhelming, and Emma shoves her hands into her pockets to stop from doing something that would be both illegal and ill-advised.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“Refresh my memory, Deputy Swan; wasn’t it _you_ who recently told me that our dear Mayor has been engaging in some extracurricular activities with your … employer?” Mr. Gold says, now not bothering to hide his smile.  
  
She realizes he’s right, and nearly bites through the inside of her cheek as she glares at him.  “If I find out you’ve been lying to me--”  
  
“I _never_ lie, Emma,” Gold says, stressing both syllables of her name.  He winks at her, slowly, before reaching for his cane again.  “You and I have that in common.”  
  
She _hates_ him.    
  
She burns with it until he picks up the still-full cup and carries it back to the curtain, leg dragging slightly behind him; as he shifts it aside and then says, “Don’t forget that you owe me, Deputy”, she realizes that she’s just made a _huge_ error in judgment.  
  
Maybe Regina can take this guy on, but she’s way out of her depth.  
  
…  
  
Back at her desk, she’s staring at the pictures, but much like Regina’s notes on each envelope suggest, there isn’t a single identifying mark on any of them.  They’re just shots.  Not even telephoto lens, for the most part; whoever was following her around did so from pretty close range.  
  
It bothers her.  She’d like to think it wouldn’t be that easy to follow her around, at least not without her noticing, but then again--she didn’t have any reason to think she might be being followed.  
  
Frowning, she stacks them all together again and looks back at Regina’s crisp handwritten dates and times.  
  
The only clue they have is that all of the pictures are from Maine.  Every time she’d left the state, or been back in Storybrooke, there’s a gap in the timeline.  It’s something, but not a whole lot, because it doesn’t rule out Gold or Regina’s mother.  Jefferson Lewis, she doesn’t know anything about... yet.  
  
Calling Kathryn is next on her to-do list, and she toys with a few of the photos while wondering if it would be okay to return the lunch invitation, or if that would be stepping on Regina’s toes somehow.    
  
Right as she reaches for the phone, it rings; she covers her heart with her hand and then picks up, barking out, “Sheriff’s Department, this is Deputy Swan.”  
  
“Hi, it’s just me,” Mary Margaret says; Emma glances at the clock on the opposite side of the room and realizes it’s lunchtime, and then sinks back into her chair.  
  
“What’s up?”  
  
“I’ve been--well, putting off asking you, because I don’t know what to do about it, but we’re about a week away from Thanksgiving, Emma, and I’m not sure what your plans are.  Do you--”  
  
Her mind blanks out at the mention of the holiday.  
  
Her memories of Thanksgiving are a giant, fucked up blur of eating leftover pizza by herself on the couch, or driving through heavy snow to get to a motel before it was too dark to get anywhere, or long before then, huddling under threadbare covers while wondering when the shouting downstairs would stop.  There are others, even less appealing, but she learned long ago not to think about those at all.  
  
“--plans are?” Mary Margaret asks.  
  
“What?  Sorry, there was--” Emma says, before rubbing at her forehead.  “Do I have plans?  No.  I don’t, really.”  
  
“Okay, because--” Mary Margaret says, and then hesitates.  “I assumed you’d be spending it with your family... but now I’m not so sure.  The last few years, I’ve spent Thanksgiving with Ruby and Granny; they tend throw a huge potluck in the diner, and everyone in town who has nowhere else to be comes together and--”  
  
“A potluck,” Emma says, before glancing at the picture of Henry on his first ‘proper’ bike that she’s sticky-taped to her desk lamp.  He had about twelve whole teeth at the time, but looks so ridiculously proud of himself that it makes her smile every time she sees it.  “Yeah, that sounds--I guess that’s fine.  I was probably just going to get some take-out from Hungry Hun’s, but...”  
  
“Okay,” Mary Margaret says, quietly.  “I just wanted to check, because I know you don’t have Henry on Thursdays normally, but I wasn’t sure...”  
  
Emma looks back at the picture again and then sighs.  “Yeah, I’m going to have to talk to Regina in that case.  I don’t know what we’re doing with the kid on holidays.”  
  
“I thought as much,” Mary Margaret says.  
  
Emma blinks and then sort of laughs and says, “I _see_.”  
  
“I was just trying to help.  I know that--this is new to you.”  
  
“Thanksgiving?”  
  
“No; ... well, yes, that too,” Mary Margaret says, sounding a little flustered.  
  
Emma sighs and then shakes her head, smiling wryly.  “Yeah.  Well, thanks, I appreciate it.  And just so we’re clear, I wasn’t going to forget Christmas.”  
  
“Oh, I know; you only did that the one time,” Mary Margaret says, easily.  
  
Emma resists the urge to drop her head to the desk and then says, “Anyway, I’ll let you know tonight, about Thanksgiving.  I’m meeting Regina anyway, so--”  
  
“Oh?  Is that... progress?”  
  
The question is tentative, but for once, not hard to answer.  “Yeah.  It’s progress.”  
  
“Well,” Mary Margaret says, managing to inject a single word with a hell of a lot of joy.  “On that note, I should probably tell you that--I might have a date, soon.”  
  
“ _Might_ have a date?” Emma asks, before adding, “And this isn’t a date.  We’re just going to be talking.”  
  
“Isn’t that what dating is?” Mary Margaret asks, sounding legitimately confused.  
  
“Well, uh--” Emma starts, and then just gives up.  “Yes.  Of course it is.  Talking, right?”  
  
“Yes.  Over dinner, normally.  Maybe lunch.”  
  
Maybe she should be taking notes.  “So who’s the lucky guy?”  
  
“Dr. Whale,” Mary Margaret admits, after a moment.  
  
“Who?” Emma asks, annoyed with herself for expecting to hear _David_ ; if anything on that front had changed... well, it’s stupid, maybe, but she thinks he would’ve told her.  
  
“He’s one of the attendings at the hospital; he has... blond hair, blue eyes.  You’ve probably seen him around, at the diner...”  
  
“Wait.  You don’t mean that guy who slipped twenty bucks into Ruby’s top and then got chased out by Granny with a broom?” Emma asks, trying not to laugh.  
  
“He didn’t mean anything by it,” Mary Margaret says, a little defensively.  
  
“I don’t know, Mary Margaret, you better button your shirt up all the way to the top if you’re going out with that scoundrel.”  
  
“Oh, _stop_ ,” Mary Margaret says, before laughing a little.  They’re quiet for a few seconds, before she adds, “Hey, Emma?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“I’m glad you’re making progress.”  
  
Sometimes, it’s really unbearable to think of how supportive Mary Margaret is, but it’s kind of nice all the same.  “Yeah, me too.”  
  
…  
  
“Well, _I_ think that we’ve made a very good start here,” Archie says, fidgeting a little as he looks up at the wall clock above his desk.  “Would you agree?”  
  
Emma tries not to look at Regina, who is wearing her _idiot council member wants idiot proposal pushed through_ face, and has been for the better part of the hour.  Instead, she clears her throat and says, “Yeah, you--had some good ideas there, about how we could, you know.  Maybe not yell at each other so much.”  
  
Archie nods enthusiastically.  “My suggestion is that we pick up there next week--we can talk about what it _is_ that makes you both resort to raising your voices the minute there is a minor disagreement, and--”  
  
“Our hour is up,” Regina says, sharply, before getting to her feet and then stalking around the couch, until she yanks her coat off a hook and says, “Thank you for your time, Dr. Hopper.  It was... educational.”  
  
She’s out the door before Emma can even get off the couch, and she bites the inside of her lip to not start laughing when she gets up herself and shakes Archie’s hand.  “Seriously.  Thanks.  I know she’s a little … uh...”  
  
“You’re both... rather imposing women.  I mean, you’re both women, and imposing.  You’re imposing by a very general standard; I didn’t mean to imply that this was somehow about your gender...”  
  
Emma manages to contain her laughter to a thin smile and then jerks her thumb at the door.  “I better make sure she doesn’t take that mood out on a small child, or anything.”  
  
“Oh, gosh--she wouldn’t--”  
  
“Joke, Archie,” Emma says, holding the door open for a second.  “See you next week.”  
  
He nods, already taking off his glasses to polish them, and then she takes off after her wife.  
  
…  
  
There’s something incredibly sexy about the unimpressed look on Regina’s face as she leans against her car, and Emma has to hide another smile as she stops in front of her.  
  
“Well,” Regina finally says, drawing the word out nice and long.  “I’d say you owe me seventy dollars, but that _hardly_ accounts for the year of my life I lost listening to that _moron_ prattle on about how I should really learn to channel my anger.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s like he’s never been to a town meeting, or he’d know that the bulk of your anger is already … you know, being channeled,” Emma agrees.  
  
Regina’s eyes pin her in place for a few moments.  “Are you saying you _agree_ with him?’  
  
“No,” Emma says, before snorting and running both of her hands through her hair, tugging it out of the back of her jacket.  “Pretty sure I could’ve told you all of that without him in the middle.  All that _take a deep breath crap_ , which obviously doesn’t work at all.”  
  
“Yes.  I’m particularly fond of _consider leaving the room,_ which would work if your irate spouse didn’t just follow you into the next one,” Regina says, rolling her eyes a little.  
  
Emma does crack a smile at that.  “Maybe I can work on not doing that anymore.”  
  
“Yes.  And I’ll try to visualize _rainbows_ when I start feeling my temperature rise,” Regina says, not without humor.  
  
“To his credit, he never actually _said_ rainbows.”  
  
“ _Puppies_ ,” Regina sneers, somehow making it sound like _head lice_.  
  
Emma leans against the car next to her, and then shoves her hands in her pockets.  “You know, those actually kind of work.  I mean, they did on me, sort of.  Once.”  
  
It earns her a questioning glance, and she shrugs.  
  
“I’m kind of getting to know David Nolan.   _Not_ because of Mary Margaret or anything.  He just--he’s kind of like me, you know.  A transplant.  We bonded over it a little, lately.”  
  
There’s the slightest of purses to Regina’s lips, but she doesn’t otherwise comment, and after a second Emma says, “... you’re not actually counting to ten right now, are you?”  
  
Regina gives her a withering look and then glances at her watch.  “Henry’s at a friend’s until seven, and I could use a glass of wine after... that.”  
  
“Okay,” Emma says, pushing away from the car with a small smile.  “Well.  Thanks for giving it a shot.  I’m sort of--thinking that if it’s no better next time, we might just have to figure out something else, ourselves.”  
  
“Wait,” Regina says, as she’s already taken three steps away from the car, and she turns on her heels.  There’s a slightly conflicted look that passes over Regina’s face in just a few seconds, but then she tips her chin up and says, “That was an invitation.”  
  
“It was?” Emma says, feeling her eyebrows climb up her forehead; they sink back down again as quickly, though, and she says, “ _Oh._ Oh.   You want us to--”  
  
“Talk.  Without the... chaperone, this time,” Regina says, glancing away and fixing the belt on her coat.  “I understand if there is somewhere else you need to be.”  
  
“No, that’s--I’m good.”  Emma can’t put a finger on why the fuck this is so awkward; maybe it’s that Regina’s asking her to do something, as opposed to just _telling_ her what to do.  “You know me.  Always up for a drink.”  
  
“I’d rather not be scrutinized by all of your friends,” Regina says, peering at her briefly.  “And I assume you’d rather not go to the Four Aces.”  
  
Emma can’t help the face she makes and Regina actually kind of snorts at it.  
  
“I thought as much.  What does that leave?”


	12. Chapter 12

Aside from the resident biker gang, which congregates at The Rabbit Hole to play a Mahjong tournament a few times a week, the place is pretty much deserted.  Some old blues record is turned low, and as they head towards the bar and Emma cranes her neck around, the only other two people she recognizes are Leroy and one of those nuns--both having what looks like glasses of iced tea and talking about some sort of charity drive.  It’s enough to make her raise an eyebrow briefly, but Leroy catches it and glares at her with such force that she looks back at Regina.  
  
Who is actually lifting the hem of her pants up as they move further into the bar.  
  
“Oh, come on, it’s not _that_ bad,” Emma says, rolling her eyes.  
  
Regina says nothing and just directs a doubtful look at the bartender; the woman’s a relic that Emma suspects came with the original liquor license.  She’s seemingly nodding off on a stool next to the door to the kitchen, but before either of them can speak, the crone shifts in her chair, showing a mouth full of uneven teeth.  
  
“Just because my eyes are closed doesn’t mean I can’t smell you,” she then says, before cackling wildly.  One of her eyes pops open, and then the other one joins, as she peers at them.  
  
“Hey, Agnes,” Emma says, reaching in her back pocket for some cash.  “I’ll have a JD on the rocks, and the Mayor here--”  
  
“A glass of Cabernet; Stag's Leap if you have it, dear,” Regina says, almost challengingly.  
  
“Year?” Agnes asks, shifting off her chair and standing, her bones creaking with every move.  
  
Regina hides her surprise well, but Emma knows it’s there, and then says, “Oh four.”  
  
“Here,” Emma says, sliding her cash across the surface of the bar.  “We’ll be at the back.”  
  
Agnes just sort of grunts and then waves them off, disappearing into the kitchen with even more creaking, and Emma reaches for Regina’s elbow.  
  
“C’mon.  Let’s sit far away from the Heavenly Devils; tiles tend to go flying in the final rounds.”  
  
Regina pretty much lets herself be led, and Emma walks her over to a table she’s had a number of drinks at in the last few years--usually on nights when they’d had an argument about something stupid, and she’d needed just a few minutes to blow off some steam.  Of course, those few minutes had usually turned into a morose few hours of her wondering why it was that they could _never_ just say the right things to each other.  
  
It hadn’t happened too often, but it feels particularly ironic now, with Regina eyeing the seat of a chair with suspicion before gingerly sitting down on it and then surveying the surroundings.  
  
“It’s a lot more lively at night.  Ruby knows the guy who DJs and can usually get them to play whatever,” Emma explains, before reaching for two coasters and planting one squarely in front of Regina.  “I like it better like this, though.  Nice and quiet, and not with half the town trying to figure out why I’m having a drink by myself, or--well, you know.”  
  
Regina nods slowly and then says, “I remember coming here a few times after I turned twenty-one, but--”  
  
“Different management?” Emma asks.  
  
Regina shrugs.  “Possibly.”  She looks back at Emma with wry amusement.  “Though I _did_ go to college, so I assure you, this is hardly the first _dive_ I’ve set foot in.”  
  
“Ah.  Your mysterious youth,” Emma says, as Agnes waddles over with their drinks, placing them on the table with enough force for some of Emma’s whiskey to slosh over.    
  
“Not mysterious; just irrelevant,” Regina says, picking up the wine and assessing it carefully before taking a sip; it meets with her approval, Emma can tell from the small noise she makes as she swallows.  “I feel slightly overdressed today, I have to say.”  
  
“You look good,” Emma says, without thinking, and then pushes at the side of her glass, resisting the urge to take in Regina’s tailored navy slacks and the pale blue shirt she’s paired them with.  Even her coat matches, somehow.  It always does.  “I mean, you always do.  You walk into rooms like you own them.”  
  
“So do you.”  
  
Emma quirks a small smile, glancing at her own scuffed boots, discount skinny jeans and slightly stretched-out long-sleeved t-shirt, barely visible through her half-opened zipper.  “Maybe.  I feel like I have to work for it more than you do, though.”  
  
Regina shrugs lightly and goes back to looking around the room.  “There’s not much in the way of decor, is there.”  
  
“No, they like it … black.  With some neon at night.”  
  
“All that empty space... I’ll have to see if they’ll let me put up posters here,” Regina says, eyeing the panelled black walls that line the bar.  
  
Emma chuckles.  “No harm in asking, I guess.”  She takes a sip and then rests her chin in the palm of her hand.  “Your campaign’s kicking off soon, isn’t it?”  
  
“A few weeks,” Regina says, before sighing and swirling her wine around in its glass.  “A consequence of new, ridiculous council restrictions.  No posters until the end of November; no debates until the first of January.  They were apparently _concerned_ that I might turn it into a year-round event.”  
  
Emma snorts.  “Like you’d have to.  In fact, I’m pretty sure you don’t need much more than your name on the ballot at this point.”  
  
Regina doesn’t bother hiding a smug look when she agrees.  “One would think.  No other viable candidates have come forward.  Aside from Gold, of course--but his petty attempts to take my seat have never gotten him anywhere.  I know I’m hardly _loved_ by the town, but at least I’m not loathed the way he is.”  
  
Emma watches as Regina takes another sip and then says, “What _is_ it between you two?”  
  
“Hm?” Regina asks, blinking.  She hesitates for a second, and then shrugs.  “Substantial disagreements on the nature and purpose of management.”  
  
“Nah, it goes deeper than that,” Emma says, and rubs her finger against the side of her glass until it squeaks.  “I went to see him today, and--”  
  
“Ah, you did,” Regina says, leaning forward with interest.  “And?”  
  
“He denies being behind it, so I’m having lunch with Kathryn tomorrow to look into Jefferson Lewis, but...”  She can’t help the way her expression and tone go sour.  “I kind of had to bargain with Gold to even get a straight answer, so now I owe him a favor.”  
  
“What is it?” Regina asks, warily.  
  
“He wanted to know where Henry’s nanny went.  The more I think about it, it’s a weird thing to ask about.  Right?  I mean, I’ve been around since he was four and he didn’t have a nanny then, so--”  When Emma looks up, she shuts up and tilts her head.  “Regina?”  
  
The wan look on Regina’s face is disconcerting.  “What did you tell him?”  
  
“Nothing, obviously.  I don’t _know_ anything about Henry’s nan--”  
  
“No, I mean, did you promise him you’d find out?” Regina asks, with a lot more emphasis.  
  
She actually looks a little worried, and Emma slowly nods.  
  
“ _Shit_ ,” Regina exhales, which is so unexpected that Emma almost knocks her drink over.  
  
“Okay, I’m a little lost right now,” she then says, sitting up a little more, “but if this is that big a deal, I’ll just--I don’t know.  Not tell him anything?”  
  
Regina’s lips squeeze together until they’re white, and then she says, “Does he have anything on you?”  
  
“Other than knowing that someone stalked me around Maine, you mean?” Emma asks.  When Regina nods, she says, “No, not that I--”  
  
The sentence dies in her throat as she recalls the smarmy smile that had played around his lips when he’d so bluntly told her that no, he had no need to screw with her relationship at all.  
  
“Emma,” Regina says, like she wants to start snapping her fingers to speed Emma’s thought process up.  “What is it?”  
  
“It’s not--he doesn’t have anything on me.  He has--”  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
Emma prods at the inside of her cheek with her tongue and then lowers her head.  “He knows about Graham.”  
  
She takes a deep breath at the same time Regina grows utterly still and just stares at her in disbelief, and then presses the backs of her hands into her eyes.  
  
“I don’t know what to tell you; he was pushing me about why I was still in town and who I was going to vote for, I was .. not entirely sober, and it just kind of slipped out--”  
  
“You went to interrogate him about those pictures _drunk?_ ”  
  
Emma cringes at the explosive exasperation in Regina’s voice.  “No, that was--a different time.  He’s known for a while.”  
  
They’re both silent for a few seconds, until Regina tersely says, “He’ll use it.  In the election.”  
  
“You don’t know--”  
  
“He’ll use it, Emma, because the mere fact that you left me isn’t enough to paint me off as some unreliable, morally bankrupt villain, but sleeping with--the head of the police department that I myself _instated_ back in the day, while married to someone else--”  
  
Emma looks away sharply.  “Yeah, I’d say that looks like a pretty shitty thing to do, on the whole.”  
  
“I know it does,” Regina snaps at her, and then visibly pulls back; almost as if she is counting puppies backwards from twenty, until there’s some measure of calm on her face again.  “I am willing to do _whatever_ it takes when it comes to _you_ , but my private life is none of this town’s business and has _no_ bearing on my ability to hold this office.”  
  
Emma does her own five-second countdown and then nods, resisting the urge to sigh.  “Yeah, you’re right.”  
  
“Do you have _any_ idea what he would do to this town, if he was in charge?” Regina asks, sounding as close to desperate as she gets, before shutting down and just directing a dark look towards the bar.  “No, you don’t.  You have no idea what kind of man he is; what he’s willing to do to get his way.  He’ll--get access to _everything_.  There isn’t a damn thing I’d be able to keep from him, and he’ll use it all--”  
  
She stops talking abruptly and then just morosely stares at her glass of wine.  
  
“I’m … really sorry, Regina.  I--” Emma starts to say, and then just gives up, staring at Regina helplessly.  “How do I fix it?”  
  
“You don’t,” Regina says, flatly.  “He’s very particular about promises; he treats them like oaths signed in blood.”  
  
“Okay, that’s--” Emma starts, but there doesn’t seem to be a normal word to finish that sentence with, and so she just takes a sip of her drink.    
  
“Once you owe him a favor, he’ll find a way to get you to deliver.  Even if the threat of revealing my... affair isn’t enough to encourage you, he’ll just find something that will make you do it.”  
  
“Like _what_?” Emma says, frowning.  “There isn’t anything else _to_ find out about our relationship.”  
  
“Oh, he won’t mind collecting on your behalf elsewhere.”  Regina runs a hand through her hair and then slumps back in her chair.  “The diner.  Moving the biker gang in next door to Mary Margaret.  I believe he also owns the building that houses the animal shelter.  He’ll squeeze everything dear to you until you give, Emma.  It’s what he does, unless you can figure out a way to squeeze back.”  
  
“Like you did,” Emma says, as at least _something_ clicks now.  
  
“No, I’ve never owed him anything.  I merely--”  Regina shakes her head after a moment.  “It isn’t important.  The bottom line is that there’s nothing we can do to stop him from using with what you told him.”  
  
“Except there _is_.  Why don’t you just tell me about the nanny so--”  
  
“That _isn’t_ an option,” Regina says, so forcefully that Emma sits back in her chair and shuts up.  “We’ll deal with the fall-out of his... insinuations somehow, and then we'll see about this promise you made.”  
  
“Okay, so what are you saying?  We're just going to let him tell everyone?”  
  
Regina looks at the walls surrounding them for a long moment, until a look of grim determination settles around her mouth.  “There's only way you _can_ counteract a lie.”  
  
“... the truth?”  
  
“No.  With a better story; a more convincing lie,” Regina says, shifting her left hand forward onto the table.  Emma stares at it for a few seconds and then tentatively smiles before reaching for it.  
  
“You put it on,” she says, tracing the edge of a familiar but unseen ring with her index finger.  
  
“I did,” Regina says, slowly turning her wrist until her hand is palm-up in the table, and Emma lets her index finger circle around until it’s pressing down in the heart of that palm.  
  
“What do you have in mind?  In terms of uh, lying?”  
  
Regina first captures her finger, gripping it loosely, but then seems to change her mind and instead captures Emma’s entire hand, locking their fingers together in a similarly non-constricting way.  “ _If_ you’re willing, a few public appearances to assure everyone that we’re fine--that the rumors of the demise of our relationship have been vastly exaggerated--”  
  
“All right,” Emma says, before cautiously looking across the table again.  “That’s not even _really_ a lie, is it?”  
  
Regina gives her a look that says, _I don’t know, you tell me,_ and Emma grips her fingers a little tighter just on principle.  It earns her a small, relieved look, and then Regina lowers her eyes to the table for a few seconds.  
  
“Well.  On that note,” she then says, brushing her thumb along the back of Emma’s hand for a second; it’s been so long since anyone’s touched her like that, even so casually, that it almost makes Emma shiver.    
  
Her skin prickles with the idea of _more_ , and she looks at Regina intently for a moment, as Regina seemingly considers how to continue.     
  
"Just say it," Emma prompts.  
  
Regina's fingers twitch, but her voice is steady when she says, “You suggested we should consider... starting over.”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“I’m not opposed to trying it.  Dating, I mean,” Regina says, before dryly adding, “It can’t be more excruciating than more sessions with Dr. Hopper, anyway.”  
  
Emma laughs, despite herself.  “Is this your way of asking me out?”  
  
Regina stays silent for a few seconds, until Emma looks up again, and then clears her throat.  “Yes.  Are you available on Thursday night?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, after a few seconds, before giving Regina’s hand a small, almost grateful squeeze, and then finally pulling her own hand back.  “I’m pretty sure I am.”  
  
…  
  
It’s not until she gets home that she realizes she forgot to ask about Thanksgiving, but that seems like a minor point when they managed to spend almost an hour together just _talking_.  Not yelling, not arguing, but just... _talking_.  
  
She doesn’t really know how to process that, at all, but there’s a lot of stuff just building up inside of her and she knows it’s going to come bursting out sooner rather than later.  
  
It’s sooner, as it turns out; Mary Margaret’s making some sort of Mexican wrap in the kitchen when she shuffles in, and on impulse, Emma strips off her hat and her gloves and then steps in behind her and gives her--well, sort of a one-armed strangle-hold, but she knows Mary Margaret will know what it means.  
  
“Oh,” Mary Margaret says, before patting the arm that’s pinning her a few times and then saying, “Is this a good or a bad thing?”  
  
“Good,” Emma says, and then steps away again and leans back against the breakfast bar.  “Soooo, Miss Blanchard.”  
  
“What?” Mary Margaret asks, suspiciously.  
  
“You and _Doctor Whale._ ”  
  
The flush on Mary Margaret’s face is instantaneous.  “Okay, I know you’re going to tease me--”  
  
“Does he even _have_ a first name?”  
  
“It’s _Alan_.  Which is a perfectly nice name for a perfectly nice man.”  
  
“I bet he’s the type who just wants you to call him _Doctor_ , though.  Especially when you’re in bed--”  
  
“ _Emma!_ ”  
  
“Oh, come _on_ , I’m kidding.  But you know, he has a reputation--”  
  
“It’s _vastly_ overstated; I’m sure Ruby encouraged him, you know how she is.”  
  
“Uh huh.  You _do_ still have the mace I got you for Christmas two years ago, right?”  
  
“Yes, Emma; we’re also meeting in public, and I think he knows better than to assume that he can get handsy with me.  If not--”  
  
“Rape alarm, but if you can’t use your hands because he’s all over you, a well-placed boot to the junk accomplishes pretty much the same thing.  …wait, do you even _own_ boots?  I don’t mean Uggs, those couldn’t neuter a ladybug...”  
  
“I was _going_ to say that I’m on fairly good terms with the Deputy Sheriff.”  
  
“Ah, yeah.  You’re right.  I wouldn’t mind kicking his ass for you.   _Legally_ , of course.”  
  
Mary Margaret gives her a look.  “I _promise_ I’ll be careful.”  
  
“All right.  I guess you have my blessing,” Emma says, shifting against the bar and then folding her arms across her chest.  
  
Mary Margaret chuckles wryly.  “I _really_ appreciate it.”  
  
“Whatever.  Just looking out for you,” Emma grumbles, before she’s handed a plate and a drink and then sent packing to the living room.  “Not like you wouldn’t do the same to me if I started seeing someone.”  
  
Mary Margaret actually laughs at that, sitting down next to her.  “I would _not_.”  
  
“Right.  So if I tell you that I kind of have this thing with Regina this Thursday--”  
  
“Oh wow, you _do_?  Where are you going?  What are you wearing?  Are you planning on spending the night or is it too soon?  What about Henry?  Oh, geez, I have no idea what Regina would even do for fun, now that she doesn’t ride anymore--do you think that maybe you should bring something over to her house, like a pie?”  
  
Emma has the burrito halfway to her mouth but it just stays there as Mary Margaret looks at her expectantly.  She gingerly lowers the burrito back to her plate, her palms acutely sweaty, and then says, “Oh my God.  Can’t I just show up and see what happens?”  
  
“ _Emma,_ ” Mary Margaret says, in the kind of chastising way that makes her want to duck her head and mumble sorry.  
  
“Whatever--I guess I’ll just--I mean, people do this all the time, right?  So it’ll just... sort of--you really think I should bring a _pie_?”  
  
Mary Margaret just gives her one of those _oh, honey_ looks and then finally admits, “Probably not.  It’s just what came to mind, but I’m not sure baked goods are the key to seducing Regina.”  
  
“ _Seducing_?” Emma repeats.  “Look, I don’t want to overshare or anything, but that’s never really been a problem for me.  We’re talking about _dating_ , now, though, so--”  
  
A swat on her arm has her shutting up.  
  
“I meant _emotionally_ ,” Mary Margaret clarifies.  
  
“Okay, hold up; _she’s_ the one who cheated,” Emma says, frowning.  “Shouldn’t she be the one, you know, emotionally seducing _me_?”  
  
“I’m sure she will be,” Mary Margaret says, with an encouraging smile.  “Good dates involve--both parties making the effort, you know.  Or, well, they should.  It’s been a while, since I’ve been on one.”  Her face falls when she adds, “I don’t know what I’m thinking, trying to give you advice on how to date.  I’m hardly an expert.”  
  
“Hey, you’re more of one than I am,” Emma tries, but it rings a little bit flat.  
  
After a second, Mary Margaret reaches for her knee and says, “You know who you should ask?”  
  
“Ruby?”  
  
That earns her an eye roll.  “No.  I was going to say... David.”  
  
“David... Nolan?  That David?” Emma repeats.  
  
A slightly wistful look flashes across Mary Margaret’s face, and then she nods.  “He’s a natural at it.  Making people feel at ease and interesting, and... he’s so chivalrous.  You don’t get a lot of that in men these days, but he carries it off without looking old-fashioned.  I’m sure he could give you a few pointers, about how to make a good impression.”  
  
Emma feels immediately uncomfortable, at this acute reminder of the things Mary Margaret wants and can’t have, but tentatively says, “He and I are sort of... becoming friends, I think.  So--yeah, maybe I can ask him.  But only if it’s okay with you.”  
  
“Why wouldn’t it be?” Mary Margaret says, a little too brightly.  “I have a date with Dr. Whale, and you have a date with your wife, and David--David is our _friend_.”  
  
“All right,” Emma says, rubbing at the back of her neck, and then gently elbowing Mary Margaret in the side.  “Well, for now, maybe we can watch one of those dating movies you have TiVo’d and see we can pick something up from that.”  
  
Mary Margaret gives her a mostly-normal smile, and then tucks into her dinner, and it’s pretty much business as usual again in their apartment; they’re watching a rom com, they’re eating dinner, and they’re both thinking about people that they wish they could be with right now.  
  
Her own situation seems a lot more hopeful than Mary Margaret’s, for the first time in months, and so when it’s time to make some hot chocolate, she gives Mary Margaret the last of the cinnamon and an extra dollop of cream.  
  
It won’t fix what’s wrong here, but Emma’s starting to realize that the little things can sometimes make the really big things feel a lot less daunting.


	13. Chapter 13

At noon the next day, Emma shrugs into her jacket and pins her badge to her belt before heading out to the diner.  It might not be Kathryn’s idea of a good place to for a business lunch, but Emma’s had everything from conversations about Henry’s mental health to a discussion of her taxes there, so it’ll probably be fine for whatever she’s getting herself involved in now.  
  
On the walk over, she gets a text from Henry saying that his mom said they should grab dinner after therapy today; _just you and me Emma!_    
  
The extremely irritating thing about it is that she doesn’t currently trust the kid enough to be sure that Regina’s given him permission for this rendezvous.   _Not_ that she technically needs permission to see him, but it’s only been a week since he last pulled a fast one and, well, no one recovers from thoughts like the ones he was having _that_ quickly.  
  
It sucks, and by the time she reaches Granny’s, she’s not in the mood to find out about a piece of Storybrooke history that is unlikely to get her closer to the answers she’s looking for.  Gold having been behind those pictures was logical, but if she’s honest--and she figures it’s not different for Regina--she’s really only following up this Jefferson Lewis thing because …  
  
Well, whoever the hell he is, he’s _not_ Cora Mills.  
  
Even thinking of the woman has her feeling queasy, as she pushes the door open and then sticks up a hand in greeting at Kathryn.  Somehow, Kathryn’s spontaneously taken a seat at the table she normally sits at with Mary Margaret--and it’s enough to make her feel guilty on top of tired and annoyed.  
  
Hot chocolate might snap her out of it, and so she just pulls off her hat and runs a hand through her hair, shaking some snowflakes off her boots before walking over.  
  
“Sorry I’m late,” she says, unzipping and slinging her jacket over the back of the spare chair before sitting down in it.  “I got a text from Henry and--”  
  
“It’s fine, don’t worry,” Kathryn says, lowering the menu to the table and then looking around.  “You know, I don’t come here often enough.  I always forget how good the coffee is.”  
  
“Yeah, it’s something else,” Emma agrees, drumming her fingertips against the table and then glancing around for Ruby, who appears to be completing a Sudoku puzzle with the fullest of concentration, but there’s something about the slant of her mouth that suggests that she, too, has no real idea of what to do with Kathryn Nolan.  “Hey Rubes, can I get a hot chocolate and--another coffee?”  
  
At Kathryn’s nod, Emma sort of manages a smile in Ruby’s direction, who gives her a very curious look before heading to the kitchen for the cream.  When she’s gone, Emma looks at Kathryn again.  “All right.  I guess you probably figured this was work-related--not that it’s not, uh, nice to see you, but...”  
  
Kathryn just smiles and then, somewhat teasingly, says, “ _How_ can I be of service to the city today, Deputy?”  
  
“Regina told me ask you about someone named Jefferson Lewis; I’m not sure in what context, but Regina thinks that he might hold a grudge against her, and--I don’t know.  Can you give me more than that?”  
  
Kathryn’s eyes widen in an infinitesimal way, and then she waits as Ruby walks their drinks over, thanking her quietly.  After wrapping her hands around her mug, she says, “Well.  Not one of my favorite topics, I have to say, but she’s right.  I’m the best person to ask."  
  
“Is he--a client?”  
  
“Yes,” Kathryn says, quietly, before running a hand through her hair.  “I guess technically he still is.”  
  
“Technically... because he’s in prison?”  
  
Kathryn smiles faintly.  “No.  That would be no place for a man who... well, a man who believes he’s actually from a different world, and that a local family has stolen his daughter and made her forget all about him.”  
  
Emma stares at her for a few seconds.  “You’re kidding.”  
  
“Not even a little,” Kathryn says, biting her lip.  “You don’t run into a whole lot of insanity defenses in family law, but this was a clear one.  He… it wasn’t a story.  He _believed_ that he was from a different reality.  With all his being.  And the girl...”  
  
“What did he _do_ to her?” Emma asks, leaning forward and lowering her voice.  “Did she--”  
  
“Oh, God, no.  He’d never hurt her,” Kathryn says, shaking her head.  “In his mind, she’s _his_.  She’s his daughter and they’re very close; she just can’t remember.  He calls her Grace; her name is actually Paige and she only knows him as the man who once offered her a ride home after school and then--”  
  
“Oh, Jesus, he _abducted_ her?” Emma asks.  It’s impossible not to think of Henry; of what she’d do if someone did anything like this to _him_.  She makes a mental note to talk to Regina about Stranger Danger again, though--maybe they should just start locking his bedroom door.  
  
And window.  
  
“He took her to his house and … he had a room ready for her.  She wasn’t hurt.  He just kept her there, and got frustrated when she couldn’t remember who he was, even with a few days of exposure,” Kathryn says.  She blows on her coffee and then sighs.  “Eventually he lost it, and went to ask her parents about what they’d done to make her forget.  That’s when the authorities got involved.”  
  
Emma frowns.  “You mean Graham and Regina. Or, well, whoever preceded him.”  
  
Kathryn nods.  “This was about five years ago; shortly into Regina’s first term.  She took the case to heart, I think, and launched a child safety campaign that swayed public opinion.  There wasn’t a juror to be found in Storybrooke who didn’t want him Jefferson locked up, and the thing about Jefferson is... as convinced he is that he’s not from this world, he’s very aware of what is going on in it.”  
  
“He blames her for getting convicted,” Emma says.  
  
“He blames her for getting institutionalized, actually,” Kathryn says, and then smiles a little sadly.  “And me, of course.  He thinks we’re part of a larger conspiracy to keep him and his daughter separated.  But, yes.  Ultimately, he blames Regina, for showing him no sympathy when she had a child of her own and _knew_ what he felt like.  I think those were his exact words.”  
  
“Where is he being held?” Emma asks, taking a sip of her hot chocolate.  Maybe it’s purely conditioning, but the second it warmly sinks down to her stomach, she feels better.  
  
“Memorial.  I can arrange for a visit, if you think it’s necessary,” Kathryn asks, before tilting her head.  “What do you think he’s been involved in?”  
  
“I’m not necessarily sure I think he _is_ involved, but--someone’s been sending some pretty nasty mail to the Mayor and I’m just trying to rule out anyone with a reason to want to get at her, if that makes sense.  Does he have access to... I mean, can he send things out?”  
  
Kathryn nods, after a second.  “They read his mail; mostly to ensure he’s not trying to contact Paige, obviously.  But there is nothing stopping him from sending mail or making phone calls.  He’s insane, but in one very particular way.  Beyond that, he functions fine.  He worked as a tailor, before … all of this happens.  It was shocking to see that his accounts were impeccable even with how clearly disturbed he was, you know?”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, fighting the urge to sigh.  “Okay, yeah.  I’d like to meet him.  Can you set something up and let me know when?”  
  
“Sure,” Kathryn says, before brightening slightly and then saying, “Hey, you made it!” to someone behind Emma.  
  
Emma actually stiffens when David moves into view and leans down to quickly kiss, well, his wife, and then forces a smile when he looks at her.  
  
“Hey, Emma.  I don’t mean to interrupt but Kathryn said--”  
  
“It’s fine,” she says, wondering if she sounds as pinched as she thinks she does; which is ridiculous, of course.  They’re both nice people and he can’t help that he’s in love with her roommate any more than Emma herself can help having constant dreams about Regina.  Reminding herself of that, forcefully, makes her smile slightly more genuine.  “Business part of this lunch just finished.  Go ahead, join us.”  
  
It’s like she’s told him he got an A on his egg drop project; he just sort of lights up at the invitation and then immediately grabs a chair, sitting down more or less next to Kathryn and looking at Emma expectantly.  
  
“Is she in trouble?”  
  
“No more than usual,” Kathryn says, linking their arms together briefly.  They share a look that makes Emma actually want to signal an SOS at Ruby, because--Jesus.  Whatever else is going on with David, they are _really_ married.  
  
And thinking of it in those terms makes her smile slip all the way, because--if this is what _really_ married looks like, what the hell does that make her and Regina?  
  
At David’s faintly raised eyebrow, she shakes her head.  “She’s not in trouble.”  
  
“Good,” David declares, before holding up a finger to Ruby, who says, “Coming right up” in response.  
  
“So, uh--” Emma says, and then realizes she has no idea how to talk to these people, at all.  What is she meant to bring up?  The weather?  It’s snowing and pretty fucking cold.  There isn’t much more to say about it than that.  She looks back down at her hot chocolate and then finally says, “How’s your day going?”  
  
“Pretty quiet, though we did manage to get one puppy adopted this morning,” David says.  
  
“The black lab?” Kathryn asks.  
  
“Yeah,” David says, a soft smile on his lips.  “Figured that would be an easy sell; there’s one little girl over on Portland who’s going to be very happy this Christmas.”  
  
Emma sort of nods and drinks some more of her drink, before giving up on being casual.  “That’s great.  Can I--ask you something?  Both of you.”  
  
They both make assenting noises, as Ruby drops a coffee off for David and then gives Emma an even more emphatic _are you serious?_ look on her way back to the kitchen.  Emma ignores her and rubs her hands together briefly before closing her eyes.  
  
“This is so stupid, but--uh, I was wondering if you might have some advice on how to--date people.”  
  
She really is sitting at a lunch table with some _really_ nice people because neither of them laugh at her, and Kathryn just tentatively asks, “Is this--okay, I’m sorry, I don’t want to pry, but who are you planning on dating?”  
  
“Oh,” Emma says, before weakly laughing.  “Sorry.  I should’ve started with... Regina and I are trying to, um, work through our differences.  Slowly.  So I think we’re going to be dating now, but I never really have?  So I’m not sure what to... you know, expect?”  
  
David looks at her with some mild confusion for a few moments.  “But--you’re married,” he then ventures, carefully.  
  
“Not legally, but, yeah,” Emma agrees.  
  
“How did you get married without ever having... dated?” he asks, even more slowly.  
  
The flush on her face is instantaneous, and she ignores it the best she can.  “Well, we sort of went about it backwards, and it’s not like I don’t know how to share space with her; it’s more the technical parts.  You know, what you do on a real _date_ , and not just... when you hang out--”  
  
“Wait, is this about tomorrow night?” Kathryn asks, rescuing her from fumbling through an even more insipid explanation.  
  
Emma nods, grateful.  “Yeah.  How’d you--”  
  
“We’re having Henry over,” Kathryn says, before smiling in a way that seems knowing.  “Regina just said she had plans, but--well, let’s just say I’m really happy that they’re with you.”  
  
“Thanks,” Emma mumbles, toying with the ends of her sleeves.  “That doesn’t really--tell me what she’s planning, though, or what I should expect and do.”  
  
“Well,” David says, leaning back in his chair and wrapping one of his arms around the back of Kathryn’s.  “If it’s anything adventurous, she’ll send you a dress code.  I mean, she has to. Say you’re going ice-skating; you’d need to wear jeans and bring a hat and a scarf, you know?”  
  
“Pretty sure we’re not going ice-skating,” Emma says, resisting the urge to add, _since we’re not twelve year old girls._  
  
“Or, if you’re going on a picnic--”  
  
“Or a romantic hike--”  
  
“A romantic hike,” Emma echoes, unable to stop herself from making a face.  “With _Regina_.”  
  
Kathryn snorts softly and then says, “Yeah, probably not.”  
  
“Is it a night-time event?” David asks.  He looks like he wants to start taking notes, like she’s a kitten that needs medical care and he’s really eager to give it to her as soon as she’s been diagnosed.  
  
“Yeah.  We’re meeting at seven.  Or, well, I’m going to the house at seven.”  
  
“All right--so she’s not picking you up,” David muses.  “That probably means that you’re doing something _at_ her house.”  
  
“Dinner,” Kathryn says, leaning into David’s arm.  “I bet she’s cooking for you; it’s what she used to do for--”  
  
The conversation grinds to an abrupt halt and Kathryn looks like she wants to bite her tongue off, which isn’t really necessary.  It’s not like.... _Emma_ is the one insistent on pretending like this isn’t Regina’s second run at this whole relationship thing, and so she just sort of shrugs and says, “No, seriously--if you know what she used to do with him, maybe just let me know so I can brace myself.”  
  
“Well, riding aside,” Kathryn says, as David leans forward and takes a sip of his drink.  “They were both very into classical music; she got him interested in opera, back in the day.  They’d occasionally go to the theater--”  
  
“I’m guessing you don’t mean the kind of theater where I might be able to catch the latest Coen Brothers flick,” Emma says, with a wry smile.  
  
Kathryn returns a nearly identical look and then says, “Oh, and dancing.”  
  
“I’m sorry?”  
  
“They went dancing together, regularly.  Not just ballroom; Daniel liked most Latin styles and Regina’s always been very light on her feet.  I’m not sure that--”  
  
“Yeah, okay,” Emma says, letting a sigh slip from her lips.  “I think that I can pretty much rule all of that out.  We have--I don’t really have anything in common with … that.”  
  
“I’m sure she knows that,” David says, kindly enough where it actually makes her feel better.  
  
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure she does,” she agrees, before mashing her lips together and then raising her eyebrows at them.  “So--dinner at her house?  That’s the verdict?”  
  
“She might have rented a movie for afterwards, or maybe she’s just counting on conversation,” David says, before looking at her with an assessing eye.  “I’d dress casually; a step up from what you’re wearing now, but nothing too formal.  Oh, and definitely bring flowers and a bottle of wine; settle on a vintage you know she likes, since you have no idea what she’ll cook.”  
  
“What about pie?  Do I bring pie?” Emma asks.  
  
Kathryn looks at her in bafflement, but David just assesses her quietly for a few moments and then laughs softly.  “I think that’d make you a welcome guest.  I can’t see why you wouldn’t want to bring pie; in fact, I might _start_ bringing pie on dates.”  
  
Kathryn looks at him with some mild skepticism, and then David just sort of grins at her and shrugs.  An entire conversation takes place without a single word being exchanged, or so it seems, and then David looks back at her and says, “Hey, has anyone told you about the annual Dinner Hunt yet?”  
  
It’s casual enough where she no longer feels invasive, sitting across from them and watching them; no, somehow David’s innocuous question brings it back to envy, and she shakes her head and tries to pay attention to David’s animated explanation of yet another ridiculous Storybrooke tradition she’s somehow missed out on in the last six years.  
  
…  
  
By the time she heads back to work, Henry’s texted her again--more urgently now, with a few all-caps words--to ask if she can come and get him over after his session.  It nudges her over to thinking this is a legitimate request, but even so, she hits her first speed-dial and presses her gloved hand close to her face as it rings a few times.  
  
Regina’s curt “Yes?” means she definitely didn’t check caller ID.  
  
“Hey, it’s me,” she says, trudging through the occasional heap of snow that covers the Main Street sidewalk.  Shop owners are diligent about getting rid of it right in front of their entryways, but there’s always a few border disputes between folks who just don’t get along enough to civilly dispose of the snow, it seems.  She figures it’ll be part of Regina’s campaign platform, and smiles faintly as she kicks through another small mound.  “I got a few texts from the kid just now, telling me that you want us to have dinner tonight?”  
  
“Oh--yes,” Regina says, far less shortly.  “I was going to call you myself at four--obviously his excitement got ahead of him, but yes, if you can get him after his session and take him out... I thought he might enjoy it, as a reward.”  
  
“For good behavior?” Emma asks, tugging her hat more firmly onto her head as it starts snowing heavily again.  
  
“Not explicitly, but... you’re obviously his favorite right now, and I thought it would encourage him to take his therapy seriously.”  
  
“Right, so I’m the carrot, and you’re the stick,” Emma says, before sighing.  “Regina, that’s the kind of thinking we’re trying to get him to _stop_ \--”  
  
“I know that, but it won’t happen overnight.  He’s been pleasant all week, if a little distant, and I want to let him know that it’s been noted and appreciated.  That’s all.”  
  
Emma feels her lips twist into a grimace, but she trudges on and then kicks her boots against the wall next to the Department’s front door before stepping inside.  “Okay.  Only if you’re sure.”  
  
“If it grates at your conscience to be used this way, perhaps put in a kind word for me,” Regina says, so dryly that Emma just rolls her eyes.  
  
They both fall silent as the heat from indoors curls around Emma and has her shivering for a second, and then she says, “Hey--so I hear he’s going to the Nolans’ tomorrow?”  
  
“Yes,” Regina says.  “We agreed we shouldn’t be sending out messages to him while we... explore our options, and in any event, I’m not sure we’d actually manage an evening that’s meant to be about _us_ if he was around.”  
  
“Yeah, okay.  That... makes sense.”  Emma hesitates for a few seconds and then says, “Look, I’m not really sure what--do you need me to bring anything, or do anything?  Tomorrow, I mean.”  
  
The line stays quiet for a few seconds, and then Regina laughs softly.  “You know, the last time I went on a _date,_ I was about two years away from being pregnant with Henry.”  
  
“Yeah, unless you're counting work setups, I think I was... fifteen.  His name was Bobby O’Connor, and he took me to a McDonald’s drive-thru to celebrate that he’d gotten his permit.  He drove me home after getting me a McFlurry and--” Emma bites her lip to stop there; the rest of the memory is less pleasantly juvenile by far.  “I figure this is bound to be an upgrade, right?”  
  
“I’ll do what I can to surpass your ceiling-high expectations, dear.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes.  “Seriously, though--do you need me to wear a dress or--I don’t know, bring a box of chocolates or something?”  
  
“Emma,” Regina sort of sighs, shutting her up.  “I am _somewhat_ cogent of who I’ve been in a relationship with all this time, believe it or not.”  
  
“Right, so...” Emma prompts, scuffing her boots against the hallway floor.  
  
“So, unless you _want_ to wear a dress, put on a pair of jeans _without_ holes in them and show up sober and on time, and I’m sure everything will work out just fine.”  
  
"Okay,” Emma says, tipping her head back in relief.  “I can manage that.”  
  
“I’m _very_ glad to hear it,” Regina says, in a way that manages to be affectionate and sarcastic all at once.  There’s a one second pause, and then a more probing, “Have you been panicking about this for the last two days?”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Emma says, forcefully.  “I just, you know, thought I’d ask.  That’s the polite thing to do.”  
  
“Mmhm,” Regina says, and then audibly straightens and says, “I have to go.  Before I forget--can you just email me the departmental update?  I’m in and out all day, and I assume that if there was anything noteworthy I would already be aware.”  
  
“You bet.  Anything big going on?”  
  
“Just winter-proofing of all basic facilities; the hospital wants to upgrade its generator in the event we have another black-out this year and wants council money for it as they’re claiming it’s primarily to support the ER.  That, and I’m being harassed by public works on three supposed soft spots that may need buffering _now_ , or we’re looking at accidents... and we desperately need to renegotiate the town-wide grit supply contract, given that commercial allowances went up by a vote of three to two last year.”  
  
Sometimes, Emma almost forgets that Regina actually coordinates _everything_ in Storybrooke.  She does it so effortlessly that any sort of concrete reminder of it is always kind of a shock; a shock and kind of a turn-on, in the way that seeing someone wield power efficiently and effectively generally is.  
  
“Yeah, you sound pretty tied up,” is all she says, before smiling after a moment.  “What’s a soft spot?  Is that just local government talk for potholes?  Because you should probably prioritize fixing those.  You know what they lead to...”  
  
“Oh, do I ever,” Regina sort of sighs at her, before hanging up with a murmured, “ _Goodbye_ , Deputy.”  
  
…  
  
Graham wanders in near the end of her shift, hair still wet from a shower, and greets her with a yawn; he goes straight for the day-old coffee and pounds back the sludge at the bottom of the carafe without so much as cringing.  Then, he turns to her, still sleepy-eyed.  “How’s it been today?”  
  
“Very quiet; a traffic light over on Emerson went on the fritz, but I got PW to up a road sign that diverts all traffic to West Avenue so neither of us have to stand there with a whistle and a flare,” Emma says, capping her pen and then putting the last of her weekly write-ups in her outbox.  Graham will fish them out later and process them, but she’s pretty much done for the day, and stretches slowly before glancing at her watch.   “I have to go get Henry--are you good to take over?”  
  
He gives her a nod and she smiles at him faintly, before remembering her conversation with David, earlier.  
  
“Oh, before I forget.  You’re in charge of the Dinner Hunt, right?”  
  
Graham visibly wakes up at the question and takes another sip of coffee, before nodding.  “I am indeed.”  
  
“Right, well, it’s probably too late to sort out a hunting licence for me--”  
  
“Ah, yeah,” Graham says, before walking over to the shelving cabinet that house all the state laws and plucking out a thin binder and holding it up.  “Regardless of if you want to go at it with a rifle or a bow and arrow, you’ll need to go through a safety course.  I run those twice monthly out of the high school, but there won’t be time to do it before this weekend.”  
  
“Okay,” Emma says, taking the binder from him and flipping it open.  “Can I come along anyway?  David Nolan says it’s more about the experience than--you know, killing turkeys.”  
  
“He’s not wrong,” Graham agrees, with a small smile.  “It tends to be a family event.  I’m there for the hunt, mind you, but the rest of town--”  
  
Emma flips through the pages--there aren’t too many of them, and so getting licensed later should in fact be pretty easy--and then looks up at him with a small frown.  “You think I should bring Henry?”  
  
Graham hesitates, bringing the coffee up to his lips, and then carefully says, “It’s clear he’s got a lot on his mind--spending some time in nature might do him some good.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, closing the binder again.  “Plus--given how much he’s into fairy tales and medieval crap these days, I’m pretty sure he’ll be interested in archery.”  
  
Graham nods.  “Mind you, I’d recommend having him face the other way when we’re actually gathering the birds up, but--”  
  
“Yeah, I’m not sure I want to see that either,” Emma says, grimacing.  “I like tracking and hunting just fine, but--the dead animal part, not so much.”  
  
“City girl,” Graham mumbles.  
  
He tenses as soon as the words leave his mouth, as if Emma’s going to tell him not to overstep, but she just smirks and says, “I don’t need to be a country girl to handle a gun well, Sheriff.”  
  
He sort of tips his mug at her, conceding the point--she’d kicked ass at her sidearm re-certification--and then says, “Well.  Perhaps next year, you’ll put your money where your mouth is, Deputy.”  
  
...  
  
She’s already out the door by the time she realizes that the bet she just made completely hinges on her still being in Storybrooke next year, and going on the annual turkey hunt a second time, and … Graham acted like it was pretty much a given that she’d still be around.  
  
And, actually, so did _she_.  
  
Her lungs squeeze around the idea for a long second, but then she sees Henry waiting outside of Archie’s office, his gloved fingers tapping in frustration at his phone, and the tightness in her chest eases up again so quickly that she feels abruptly light-headed.  
  
Maybe, the idea of staying here indefinitely is just not worth panicking about anymore.


	14. Chapter 14

It’s 6.58.  
  
Her fingers almost snag in the door as she slams it shut behind her, and she yelps at the near-miss, before realizing that instead of her fingers, she’s crushed the bunch of roses she picked up at Game of Thorns.  Like, crushed in _half_.  The roses themselves pitifully droop onto the seat inside of the car as she’s stuck holding a bundle of prickly stems.  
  
“ _Fuck_ ,” she says, kicking at the car door, which pops it back open.  
  
It’s the first time ever she’s thought that Regina might have a point about her being in desperate need of a vehicular upgrade, though these are probably not the ‘safety’ reasons Regina had in mind.  
  
She eyes the bunch of sticks in her hands and then throws them onto the ground, stomping on them once, and then just books it to the door.  She promised she’d be wearing clean jeans, which she _is_ , and she promised she’d be on time and sober.  The one glass of white wine she’d gulped back at Mary Margaret’s isn’t a violation of the code, and anyway, she ate about seven Lifesavers afterwards, so her breath is--  
  
She has no idea.  
  
She punches the doorbell, trying to look a little less frazzled than she feels, and then sucks in a deep breath and pulls her shoulders back and plasters on some sort of... expression.  
  
As soon as Regina opens the door, she realizes she left the pie and the wine on the passenger seat, and is now actually standing there empty-handed.  
  
“Hi--” she starts, the word hanging kind of endlessly as she sees what Regina is wearing.  “Uh--I thought you said-- _goddammit,_ why didn’t you just tell me to wear a dress?”  
  
Regina looks at her like she’s trying not to laugh and then frowns abruptly.  “Are you _bleeding_?”  
  
“ _What?_ No, of course not--” Emma says, looking down and then swallowing abruptly.  “Oh, shit.  It’s--I’m fine.  I had flowers, but they tried to kill me, obviously.  I’ll be fine with just--”  
  
“Oh, for the love of God,” Regina says, yanking her into the house by her non-wounded paw and then shoving her into the direction of the living room.  “Sit down.  I’ll get the first aid kit.”  
  
Really, it’s the kind of introduction that would make anyone else just run outside for a do-over, but she lets her shoulders droop and heads over to the living room, sitting down on the couch and making really sure her faintly bleeding hand isn’t touching anything.  
  
She’s going to kill David and his stupid ideas of how to make a good impression.  Here she is, clutching her injured hand with her good hand, as Regina is off in her incredibly tight and like, _where do I even look?_ dress to get her a--  
  
“Sorry.  We appear to be out of the adult kind,” Regina says, perching down next to her like a ghost and then holding up a Superman band-aid.  
  
Emma sighs and holds out her hand.  “Pretty sure I _deserve_ the child kind.”  
  
“How exactly...” Regina tries, and Emma just slumps back onto the cushions as some Neosporin is slathered onto the cut on her palm with the kind of precision that only a mother could exhibit.    
  
“I bought you roses.  You know, the really dark red kind, because I know you like those, and--there’s a bottle of wine in the car and a pie, but somehow I can’t even get anything to the front _door_ without nearly breaking my neck, so--yeah, this is going great so far.”  
  
She knows she sounds petulant but can’t really help it; not until the band-aid is snugly in place on her palm and Regina looks at it for a second before giving her a thinly veiled look of amusement.  
  
“Would a kiss make it better, Deputy?”  
  
“I hate you,” Emma mumbles, yanking her hand back and covering it with her other hand.  She sighs and then looks back at Regina, or rather, Regina’s legs and everything else that means not having to look at her _face_ , right now, and then says, “You look really nice, by the way.”  
  
“Thank you,” Regina says, before turning laser eyes onto Emma’s pressed blue Oxford and best pair of jeans and clean boots and then smiling slightly.  “As do you.”  
  
“Should’ve told me to wear a dress,” Emma reiterates, and then freezes when Regina reaches for her knee and squeezes it briefly.  
  
“Why?  I like you like this,” is what she gets told, and suddenly, maybe it doesn’t matter so much anymore that she’s attending her first adult date with not a single gift in hand and a Superman band-aid about an inch away from her wedding ring.  
  
…  
  
This _clearly_ isn’t Regina’s first attempt at something like this, because she very casually gets directed towards the dining room, presented with a glass of her favorite scotch without prompting, and told that dinner will be ready in about ten minutes.  
  
“I’d say make yourself at home, but--” Regina says, which is the first time all night she’s seemed a little bit hesitant.  
  
“I’ll be okay.  I’ll--I mean, I guess I can also follow you into the kitchen and help.”  
  
Regina’s eyebrows contort briefly.  “I’d welcome the company, but perhaps we’re better off entrusting the actual cooking to me.”  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Emma grumbles, though in the interest of getting a good meal, it’s not like she actually disagrees.  
  
It’s only a few steps to get to the kitchen, which has always been one of the odd rooms in the house.  Along with Henry’s room, it’s almost like it has been decorated by someone else, which makes her briefly think of Daniel--though he was already gone by the time Regina moved here.  It feels like space that harkens back to a different time, though.  
  
Like, a few years before Regina discovered that black went with pretty much _everything_.  
  
The kitchen’s also been the one room in the house that Emma’s always felt comfortable in, and so she hops onto a counter with her glass of Glenlivet and watches as Regina heads to the stove to fiddle with a variety of different pots and pans on it.  
  
“What are we having?” she asks, taking a small sip and then putting the glass to the side; the instructions were to be sober, so she’s going to make good on that request unless Regina keeps the alcohol flowing, but--hopefully that won’t be necessary.  
  
It’s just an evening together; they’ve done it before, even though it’s never felt this artificial and important, somehow.  
  
“A surprise,” Regina tells her, dipping her finger into something and then sampling it quickly; that’s definitely not hygienic, but Emma finds that she doesn’t really care when it _is_ definitely kind of sexy.  “Something new, but I think you’ll like it.”  
  
“No lasagna, then?” Emma asks, letting her legs gently bounce off the cabinets below until Regina sends her a reproachful look.  
  
“I assumed you’d had your fill, given how much I sent over with Henry.”  
  
“I don’t know,” Emma says, shrugging.  “Some things are so good, you never get tired of them even if you have them all the time.”  
  
It only hits her that that can be taken any number of ways when Regina looks at her for a few seconds too long, and then she just blushes and looks the other way.  
  
The kitchen stays silent, aside from the noise of something crackling in the oven and a few pans hissing above the stove, and Emma starts wiggling again just because--it feels like there’s something she should be doing.  If this is really supposed to be a first date, she’d...  
  
Well, she wouldn’t just be sitting on the kitchen counter.  She’d be trying to find things _out_ about Regina, she’s pretty sure, but--it’s hard to think of questions just like that, without any prompting.  Basic questions are pointless because she knows the answers; the pumps are Regina’s favorite Sandersons and Regina only ever wears Poison by Dior, so that leaves a question about the _dress_ , but it would feel so forced.  With a fit like that, she doesn’t really care who made it, and Regina _knows_ that.  
  
It only hits her she’s staring silently when Regina clears her throat and says, “So.  How was your day?”  
  
“Boring,” Emma says, which is sort of true; she only worked a morning shift and spent most of the afternoon staring impotently at her closet, until Mary Margaret had shown up at five and shoved her aside.  “There’s bound to be a few crashes in the next few weeks while people adjust to the snow, but so far so good.  No cats out in this weather.  We’ve mostly been catching up on permit renewals.”  
  
Regina nods, and Emma runs her knuckles along the length of her thighs.  
  
“What about you?”  
  
Regina looks at her with wry amusement.  “If you’re being polite, by all means, ask me something else; I know the minutiae of running a small town don’t interest you.”  
  
“No, I mean--” Emma starts, before sighing in frustration.  “This is what I meant, when I said we should start over.  You’re just... assuming that I don’t care.  Probably because I never asked.  And, okay, maybe hearing you bitch about the sewage department or how the people in auditing are all idiots isn’t like... the single most _riveting_ thing in the world, but it’s your life.  It’s what--”  
  
“It’s my _job_ , Emma.  It’s one I acquired mostly accidentally, turned out to be good at, and now intend to keep because it pays well and it keeps me busy when...”   Regina trails off, turning the temperature on the oven down and then adds, “It _kept_ me busy when I had nothing to do but sit around and think about...”  
  
“Daniel.”  
  
“No,” Regina says, and then sighs, running the back of her hand through her hair until it’s out of her eyes.  “Thinking about him... that stopped, sooner than you might’ve thought it would.  Thinking about what on earth I was going to do with his _son_ , by myself, on the other hand...”  
  
Emma looks over in surprise.  “Really?”  
  
“What, you think he came with an instruction manual?  For God’s sake, he’s a child, not a blender,” Regina says, rolling her eyes slightly.  “I was alone, barely older than you were when _we_ first met.  My father fell ill shortly after Daniel passed away, and … well, you’ve met my mother.  The idea of letting her _near_ Henry was enough to make me determined I would do this on my own, but...”  
  
“I...” Emma starts to say, before thinking of herself at age twenty four and then almost falling off the counter at the idea of having to really, _really_ take care of Henry.  A _baby_ Henry.  Who would’ve needed her for every little damn thing.  “I guess I’ve never really thought of it that way. I mean, you’re so natural with him.  You always have been.”  
  
“When you met me, I’d had four years of practice,” Regina points out, before gently prodding her in the thigh.  “Move, please.  I need the serving bowls.”  
  
“I’ll get them,” Emma says, hopping off the counter and rummaging around the cabinet until she’s got hold of the two nicer ones and handing those over.  “And, I guess.  But by now I’ve had four years of practice, more or less, and--”  
  
“You’re fine,” Regina says, a little shortly.  “He adores you, he trusts you, and...”  
  
“Being a likable parent isn’t the same thing as being a good one.”  
  
A slightly dark look passes over Regina’s face as she straightens again, and then Regina just shrugs and says, “You noticed that he was struggling before I did.  I’m not sure what more you want me to say.”  
  
Emma sighs, and then gets handed a bowl of what look like fries and a salt shaker.  “I don’t know how this turned into a conversation about how you’re letting him down, because that’s really not where I wanted this to go.  My point was, you’re a great parent, and if I haven’t screwed him up completely it’s mostly because I’ve been following your lead for a long time.  Okay?”  
  
Regina just nods and then says, “I’ll bring the rest of the food out.”  
  
Emma hesitates for a second, but then figures it’s probably easier to let Regina have a moment than to push this any further.  
  
So much for easy _getting to know you_ conversations, though.  It seems like they’re way past the point where those are even an option anymore.  
  
…  
  
Dinner is mostly silent, because it’s fucking _amazing_ , but Emma’s about half way through her low-fat burger and the sweet potato fries that Regina hand-cut and did something _amazing_ to by the time it occurs to her that maybe, the thing to do is to _say_ that.  
  
“This is really good,” she mumbles, around the back of her hand, swallowing quickly.  “Like, _really_ good.  Better than diner food, and I bet it’s healthy.”  
  
Regina just sort of smirks.  “I figured that if I made it _look_ like the kind of … trash ... you enjoy eating--”  
  
“Good call,” Emma agrees, dabbing at her lips with a napkin and wiping off some stray relish.  “But seriously, this is amazing.”  It strikes her as a sudden topic, and so she shifts in her seat and says, “Where’d you learn to cook like this?”  
  
“My father,” Regina says, a slight frown forming between her eyebrows.  “My mother never really had any interest in cooking, so spending time in the kitchen was...”  
  
“Time away from her?” Emma says, gently.  
  
Regina stares ahead, at one of the several candles that are lighting their dinner, and then nods curtly.  “I know it’s a terrible thing to say--”  
  
“Oh, god, no.  You have no idea what kind of places I used to find to hide in.  I get it.  Maybe not … directly, but I get it.  I mean, you know what my youth was like, apparently...”  
  
Regina watches her cautiously for a few moments and then says, “You should know that... I don’t know the specifics.”  
  
“Of what?” Emma says, bending back over what’s left of her burger and squeezing it together until she can bite.  
  
“Your detention.  I know how long you were detained for, but I don’t know why.”  
  
Emma looks over in shock, burger falling back to the plate.  “Well, yeah, those records are sealed.  You’re not even supposed to know they exist.”  
  
Regina looks away briefly and then says, “I spent a lot of money.  For Henry’s sake.”  
  
“Right,” Emma says, a little flatly.  
  
“I assumed that it had something to do with the missing person’s report filed on you a few months prior, and none of it seemed like it would negatively affect Henry, so I didn’t pry.”  Regina looks at her plainly for a few seconds and then takes a sip of wine.  “You still don’t have to tell me now, if you don’t want to.  I just thought I would let you know that if you want to, you can.”  
  
Emma blinks a few times and then sits back in her chair.  “You’re not going to push.”  
  
“You sound like you _want_ me to,” Regina says, faintly raising an eyebrow.  
  
Emma stares back at her, not sure why she’s suddenly on edge, but she _is_.  “Well, maybe I do.  Maybe I think it’s fucked up that you know I was in prison for a while and you don’t give a damn about the why.  You haven’t, for _six years_ now.”  
  
Regina slowly folds up her napkin, putting it to the side of her plate, and then says, “I’m not really sure what you want me to do right now, Emma.  Would you like to have an argument about this, or are you merely trying to make me feel bad about something I cannot _possibly_ undo at this point?”  
  
“I just--” Emma starts, and then stares at her plate of food, suddenly no longer hungry.  “You had six years to get to know everything about me, and you didn’t.  You looked into just enough of my past to see if I was dangerous and beyond that--”  
  
“You’re a very private, guarded person,” Regina says, a little pointedly.  “I didn’t think that you’d appreciate me pushing you on things you were _obviously_ not ready to share with me.”  
  
“Yeah, that’s a nice and easy assumption there, Regina.  Who says I wasn’t _ready_?  Maybe I just needed you to act like you _cared_ to know any of this.  Maybe, if you’d just asked--”  
  
“The way you asked me about Daniel?” Regina cuts her off.  
  
Emma bristles.  “I didn’t know _what_ to ask there.  It’s not like I didn’t know the basics.  How the hell is that similar to _running_ a background check on me and then never asking me about any of the shit that you dug up?  I mean, you found it all, right?  The failed adoption?  The six foster families that followed?  My caseworker notes, the ones that describe me as hostile and aggressive and potentially dangerous to myself and my host families?  And the missing person’s report-- _God_ , I don’t even know where to start on what you thought... probably just that I was causing even _more_ trouble than I had in the years before, right?  And then booked it out of town before I could get rehomed.  Just--fucking _ran_ , because that’s all I’m good at.  It’s all I’ve ever been--”  
  
“Stop,” Regina says, quietly enough where Emma abruptly sucks in a deep breath and then realizes that somehow, she’s given up way more than she wanted to.  This isn’t first date material.  This hasn’t ever been _any_ material. This has been stuff that she left behind, several states over, before buying a car as soon as she could afford one and never once looking back.  This isn’t...  
  
She shudders when Regina reaches for her hand, on her lap; it’s the one with the band-aid on it and it aches, briefly, as Regina firmly takes hold of it.  
  
“ _If_ you want to tell me, you can,” Regina says, softly but deliberately.  “It doesn’t change how I see you now, and I don’t _need_ to know more to trust you with Henry, or--anything else.”  
  
Emma nods, because she’s not sure she can do anything more than that, and then pushes away from the table and says, “I’m sorry, I just need--”  
  
Regina pulls her hand away and says, “Go ahead.”  
  
It takes her two seconds to make a decision, but ultimately she heads for the kitchen and into the back yard, not looking back at the house until she sees the apple tree--fruitless and mangled, like another physical reminder of what a colossal fuck-up she is.  
  
She stands underneath it and balls her fists and tries to keep at least something of a grip for a long moment, until the crunch of snow sounds behind her and she sees Regina in a pair of snow boots--they really don’t go with the dress--and a long coat, holding out her jacket and her glass of alcohol.  
  
“Shit,” Emma just says, before wiping at her eyes.  “What the hell is _wrong_ with me?  I’m sorry--that was a great meal, and I just show up and bleed all over your couch and then--”  
  
“It’s fine,” Regina says, draping her jacket over her shoulder and silently standing next to her for a few moments, looking up at the tree.  “If I’m honest, there was a very long time where I thought that I was right about... the seriousness of your interest in me purely because you never asked about Daniel.  Everyone else had reasons not to bring him up, but--never so much as a … _where’s his father?_ from you.  I assumed you didn’t care.  That--providing you never had to see Henry’s father, it just wasn’t an issue.”  
  
“Mary Margaret and Ruby told me.  When it was clear that... I was stopping by in Storybrooke for more reasons than just hanging out with them.  I mean, that excuse wore kind of thin, after six months.”  
  
Regina almost smiles, and then just raises the scotch and takes a sip of it.  “It’s been so long, since I’ve talked about him, that by the time I realized you wouldn’t mind hearing it... I don’t know.  It just didn’t seem worth reliving.”  
  
“I’m pretty sure my past is in that category, too,” Emma admits, after a few long moments of watching snow drift down around them, flakes splintering on the barren branches of the tree.  “Sorry for--”  
  
Regina just shrugs, and then shivers.  “Are you happy to go back inside now, or--”  
  
“Yeah, I mean--unless you’d rather just... call it a night, or--”  Emma gives up, staring at the ground and then reaching for her jacket, pulling it around herself in anticipation.  
  
Regina rolls her eyes, almost kindly, and then says, “We haven’t even talked about our favorite movies or our political views yet, Miss Swan.  Surely this … date can’t be over yet.”  
  
Emma takes it as the reprieve that it is, and manages a small smile.  “No politics.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Pretty sure we don’t agree on much, and an argument about that... well, it’d pretty much undo everything your dress has been accomplishing all night, so--”  
  
Regina just sort of chuckles, and then leads the way back into the house, beckoning for her to follow.  
  
…  
  
Backgammon, as it turns out, is a bullshit game of almost complete luck that Regina destroys at without even really trying.  
  
She’d laughed, when Regina had pointed at the board sitting on the coffee table before saying, “Unless you’d rather watch some TV...”, but in the spirit of getting to _know each other,_ or whatever it is they’re supposed to be doing, she’d also agreed to give it a go.  
  
“Do warn me if you’re about to start throwing pieces across the room, dear,” Regina tells her, after another frustratingly lucky roll that has her bearing off more of her checkers.  
  
“I’m not _five_ ,” Emma says, before glaring at her Superman band-aid and rolling the dice herself.  “Okay, seriously.  How are you doing this?  I keep stacking them right here and every time you roll you get to take pieces off.”  
  
“Luck,” Regina says.  
  
“Whatever.  There has to be some skill involved, or nobody would play this more than once, voluntarily.”  
  
Another three moves and it’s game over, making it three-zip for Regina, who crosses her legs and leans back, looking very triumphant.  “It’s my favorite game for a reason.”  
  
“What, you never lose?”  
  
“No,” Regina says, slowly sipping at her wine and then depositing the glass on the table.  “It’s unpredictable.  There isn’t a guaranteed victor.  You can beat players with far more experience, or lose to someone with none.”  
  
Emma frowns.  “That sounds... frustrating.”  
  
“Winning constantly gets dull, Emma.  The element of surprise is what keeps things interesting.”  
  
It’s an innocuous comment, sure, but Regina’s only six inches away from her and Emma’s had just enough scotch to forget that they’re sort of pretending that they haven’t seen each other incredibly naked incredibly often, tonight.  
  
“Says the woman who used to schedule when we have sex,” she says, before curling one of her legs up under her and planting her elbow on the back of the sofa, so she can face Regina.  
  
“ _When,_ maybe,” Regina agrees, her lips slowly curving into a smile that’s downright predatory.  “But never _how_.”  
  
It takes Emma a second, but then she laughs and looks away.  “God, I really should know better than to even try.”  
  
Regina’s smile gentles and then she stretches out of her legs, kicking off her heels and looking up towards the ceiling.  “I really don’t mind.  There’s a sort of nostalgia in you trying to outsmart me, in that I don’t think you’ve ever managed, but it’s always been incredibly … endearing when you’ve tried.”  
  
“I’m better with actions.  We both know that,” Emma concedes.  
  
Regina sort of tilts her neck over and directs a slightly amused look at her hand.  “Sometimes, anyway.”  
  
Emma finishes the last of her scotch and then says, “I brought _pie_.”  
  
“You left your pie in the car, dear.  I don’t think you get credit for _almost_ managing to show up with a gift.”  
  
“Okay, God, fine.  Do I get any credit for anything?”  
  
Regina’s expression sobers abruptly, and then she says, “For staying.”  
  
“What, after my monumental freak-out over--”  
  
“In general,” Regina says, sitting up a little more and then staring off into the distance.  “You get credit for... staying, for _trying_ , and... for how those jeans fit.  I’m still not sure how you squeeze into them, but I’m _very_ appreciative that you manage.”  
  
Emma hesitates between laughter and embarrassment for a few seconds, and then just says, “Is this what most first dates are like?”  
  
“I’m not sure,” Regina says, and then laughs a little.  “The last first date I had involved... taking two horses, trying to avoid my mother, getting stuck in the woods in a thunderstorm, and having to walk three miles in the mud to get back home after the horses bolted.  So, no.  But I hardly think that one was typical.”  
  
“It sounds... cold and wet,” Emma says, after a moment.  
  
“Oh, I couldn’t stop sneezing for about three days after.  I had a terrible fever and my mother grounded me and forbade me from seeing him again, unless it was for lessons, but...”  A long-gone kind of smile flits across her face, and then she says, “Well.  And then there was us.”  
  
“Us?” Emma echoes.  
  
“Hm.  Let’s see.  A completely torn shirt; one missing shoe that I found again three months later, when the city cleaning service recovered it behind a filing cabinet.  A broken paperweight that I was actually quite fond of, and--”  
  
Emma can’t really manage to look away, even though this is dangerously heading into territory she _didn’t_ want it to, just yet.  “And what?”  
  
Regina’s eyes only darken slightly when she says, “Some … very positive memories.”  
  
Emma knows her cheeks are a little reddened, from the heat of the fireplace and the subject of conversation, but somehow, Regina’s comment doesn’t tip her over the edge into doing something reckless and stupid.  She smiles, as naturally as she has at Regina in a while now, and says, “Glad it’s not just me.”  
  
“I have... approximately three months of Criminal Minds TiVo’d for you,” Regina says, after a moment.  “I’ve had to delete some old episodes of … documentaries--”  
  
“You mean Passions,” Emma says, shooting her a look.  
  
Regina looks disgruntled.  “I _can’t_ delete Passions.  It’s not out on DVD.  But even so--”  
  
“You _hate_ Criminal Minds.”  
  
“It’s insipid.  It’s obvious from the first act who’s done it, and their concept of evil is incredibly pedestrian and doesn’t come close to covering the full psychological scale of horrors that humans can inflict on each other,” Regina says, before rolling her eyes.  “But you _so_ enjoy being cleverer than professional FBI profilers, and who am I to deprive you?”  
  
“I feel like... the only dignified thing to do here is to say no, thank you,” Emma says, peering at her carefully.  
  
Regina just sort of smiles mysteriously, and Emma sighs before leaning forward and grabbing the remote off the coffee table.  
  
“Dignity’s overrated,” Regina then says.  
  
“Oh, shut up, you don’t mean that.”  
  
When Regina actually laughs, it feels like she’s finally done something right.  
  
…  
  
About halfway through the first episode, it occurs to Emma that David said, right as she walked out of the diner, that the only real point in dating is getting familiar with each other.  He’d said that with some people, that meant moving faster than others, but even so--it wasn’t a good date unless there was a little bit of a give and take, and some mutual risk-taking going on.  
  
Regina’s taken a few, by asking some long overdue questions and nearly getting her head bitten off for it, and that makes it seem like it’s her turn, now.  
  
On screen, Hotch and Reid are interrogating a witness who will probably turn out to be a serial killer in the next twenty or so minutes, and Emma glances at Regina--in her own corner of the couch--from the corner of her eye.  
  
Then, she shifts; first to get more comfortable, and then a second time to get a little bit closer.  When she stretches her arms out over her head, it looks _mostly_ spontaneous, and lowering one until it’s draped along the back of the couch is almost natural.    
  
Mary Margaret’s movies make it look like this will automatically result in cuddling or making out, but Regina continues to placidly stare at the TV before rolling her eyes and saying, “Forgive me for ruining this for you--”  
  
“Yeah, that guy did it,” Emma agrees, watching Regina’s profile flicker in the low overhead lighting and then, with a slight clenching of her teeth, shifting in even closer.  
  
She’s now close enough for Regina to look over, and to then crane her head a little further, spotting the arm, and--  
  
“ _Don’t_ ,” Emma warns.  
  
“If you wanted to snuggle, all you had to do was ask, dear,” Regina says, lights in her eyes dancing with amusement.  
  
“You know what?  Forget I--just _never mind_ ,” Emma snaps, pulling her arm back to her own side of the couch.  
  
She can hear, more than see Regina sigh softly, and deliberately doesn’t look away from the TV when fabric shifts noisily on the other side of the sofa.  
  
“You caught me by surprise,” Regina stresses, a little stiffly.  “I won’t always respond well.  I’m not … any better at this than you are.  This is a little out of the ordinary for both of us, and I can’t feign amnesia about the last six years just because--”  
  
“Yeah, well, _neither can I,_ Regina,” Emma bites out.  “In fact, there’s one very specific part I can’t seem to forget about, but I’m _trying_.”    
  
She leans forward and punches the ‘off’ button on the remote with some force, as a heavy silence falls over the room.   The urge to lower her face to her hands is overwhelming, but it feels like admitting, out loud, how weak she is; how much the last few months have taken out of her.  Instead, she just sits and stares at the fire, until even that becomes too much, and she pushes up off the couch.    
  
“Maybe this was too soon.  I guess I’m not ready to date you if I can’t stop thinking about you fucking my boss every time I so much as-- _think_ about how much I--”  
  
“I understand,” Regina says, her voice unreadable.  
  
“No, I don’t think you do,” Emma says, running a hand through her hair.  “I really don’t think you do, because when you think about us having sex, you think about all those times you thought you were just some port in a storm, or whatever.  But to me?  You were _it_ , Regina.  You were--”  
  
Regina lowers her head when she turns around, and that, too, hurts.  She’s _sick_ of this hurting; of all of this being a fucking mess, no matter how hard she’s working to get past it.  
  
"This was a mistake,” she finally just admits, out loud.  It’s almost a relief to say it.  
  
Regina’s on her feet in a flash and there’s something very urgent about the way she says, “You can’t think that just because--”  
  
“It’s not because of what you _said_ ,” Emma says, suddenly exhausted.  “It’s that... neither of us are these people.  I’ll always have the crappy adolescence and you’ll always have the dead husband, and--I don’t _want_ to pretend that any of this didn’t happen to us.”  
  
Regina studies her face carefully and then says, “So what does that mean?”  
  
“It means that--” Emma starts to say, and then closes her eyes.  “Just--wait right here.  Give me a minute.”  
  
“To do _what_?” Regina asks, but Emma’s already out the living room, grabbing her jacket in passing and then hopping out into the cold, the heavy front door falling shut behind her.  Her socks soak through even on the shoveled path, but she runs to her car and opens up the passenger door, grabs the pie, and then takes a deep breath, fixing her hair in her side mirror, before walking back to the front door.  
  
She doesn’t hesitate this time, before ringing the doorbell, and Regina opens as quickly as she did the first time, looking at her in obvious confusion.  
  
“I brought you an apple pie,” Emma says, holding it out on one hand.  “Apple, because we’ve been married for three years and I _know_ it’s your favorite.  I obviously didn’t bake it myself, because we _both_ know I’m a disaster in the kitchen and Mary Margaret didn’t trust me not to accidentally poison you, so--this is a damn good apple pie.  And what we should’ve done all along, what we’re going to do now, is take this pie into the kitchen, have a slice with some coffee, and then we can talk about shit we _normally_ talk about, like the kid, and how he’s really worried about me spending time alone with you--”  
  
“What did he think would happen?” Regina interjects, frowning in a way that is almost heartwarmingly familiar, just like that.  
  
Emma laughs a little, still balancing the pie, and says, “He seems to think you can work some kind of magic on me, which--you know what?  He’s probably right, because I can’t stop thinking about you and Graham, but--”  
  
The pie teeters, but Regina’s quick with her hands and catches it as Emma leans forward, hopping inside again on her soaking wet socks, grabbing hold of the doorway and then just hovering there, right in front of Regina.  
  
“But what?” Regina asks.  
  
“But I also can’t stop thinking about how much I miss--” Emma says, and then drops her eyes.  She’s running on a diet of scotch and anxiety, and it’s not potent enough to push her this last inch into where she wants to be, but … before she can berate herself over it, a finger gently pushes below her chin and forces her to look up again, and she swallows before meeting Regina’s eyes.  
  
“There are many steps between here and the bedroom, Emma.  Perhaps starting over means we don’t simply skip them, this time,” Regina says, her breath ghosting over Emma’s lips; they’re that close together.  
  
“You think we can?” Emma says, curling her hand around the doorframe tightly to not lean forward just a little further, when this stops being a choice she can make.  
  
Regina doesn’t respond for a long moment, but then makes the choice for her; she crosses the last of the hairsbreadth of distance between them and brushes their lips together.  It’s fleeting and more gentle than it’s ever been before, but it makes Emma’s entire body break out into goosebumps, a warm rush flooding out from her chest.  
  
It’s not much at all, but when Regina pulls back again and looks at her with a kind of hopeful insecurity, Emma realizes that sometimes not much and everything are identical occurrences.  
  
“Let’s eat some pie,” she then says, only a little shakily, before stepping around the door and pulling it shut behind her again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because one of my beta readers is far more astute and up on her US politics than I am, a few clarifying points about the Mayoral election (which is basically not mentioned in this chapter at all, but it will be back!):
> 
> a) Most US cities put mayors on the ballot at the same time as everything else (ie early November).  
> b) When I originally did some reading up on this, I looked at a few large US cities and concluded there wasn't actually any rhyme or reason to when mayoral elections took place or how long the seat could be held (some municipal by-laws have limitations, others don't). After, I looked at what I was writing, what key holidays I wanted to include, and decided that Storybrooke went with the Chicago model of running Mayoral elections in late February. The reality is, being mid-sized middle-American, the elections would probably actually take place in November, but that brings me to point c....  
> c) This is the city that dealt with sheriff elections in about 3 days, so in honor of that canon tradition...  
> d) To my mind, Storybrooke is like Stars Hollow + Magic, which is another way of saying that I'm not really devoted to realistic governance in writing this. :) 
> 
> What you need to know is that in this story (ie not reality), by the end of February, after a short campaign cycle, Regina will either get her third term as Mayor or Mr. Gold will take over.


	15. Chapter 15

When Emma heads out in the morning, she’s startled by a pair of men’s dress shoes parked neatly next to her boots.  She digs her phone out of her pocket on the way out, texting a quick _you dog!_ at Mary Margaret.  
  
A response doesn’t come until she’s already at the diner, collecting her morning coffee order, and she laughs at the all caps _HUSH_ that is Mary Margaret’s only reaction.  Ruby raises an eyebrow at her, from where she’s mopping up a few smudges of coffee on the counter.  
  
“Mary Margaret had a date last night,” Emma says, grabbing a few packets of sugar off the counter and stuffing those into her coat pocket.  “It went... well.”  
  
“ _How_ well?” Ruby asks, now also starting to smirk.  
  
“Pretty sure it went well by, you know, _your_ standards.”  
  
Ruby looks affronted for a few moments, but then just grins and says, “Remind me to high-five her, and then pester her about the details.”  
  
“Get in line,” Emma says, scooping up her coffee-to-go.  
  
“Yeah, I guess you’re not getting any either, so we’re all just living vicariously now,” Ruby says, before she actually manages to step away from the bar; when Emma’s head whips around, she bites her lip and holds up her hand in apology.  “Sorry--I guess that’s--”  
  
“No, it’s--I mean, it’s not wrong,” Emma says, lowering the coffee to the bar again.  “But--for the record, we’re working on it.  Okay?”  
  
Ruby first smiles at her, and then frowns at her.  “Wait, why are you telling me that?”  
  
“You’re my friend,” Emma says, with a shrug.  
  
Ruby’s eyes narrow a little further.  “I’m also a _relentless_ gossip, and you don’t kiss and tell.  I don’t even know why you moved out. All you’ve ever said is that it wasn’t working--”  
  
“ _Ruby_ \--take it for the gift it is, okay?” Emma says, rolling her eyes a little.  
  
“So it wasn’t working, but now you’re working on... making it work,” Ruby ventures.  
  
“Yeah.  We’re just taking it one day at a time, for now.  Starting over, slowly.”  
  
“Slowly meaning... with clothes on,” Ruby says, nodding.  “Okay, I gotcha.  What’s that like?”  
  
“What, wearing clothes?” Emma says, with a quick look up and down Ruby’s outfit of the day.  “Some people find it comforting, I don’t know.  It helps with the cold.  Also, sometimes taking clothes _off_ is half the fun.”  
  
Ruby glances over her shoulder to look for Granny, and then very slowly flips her off, eyebrows knitting together.  “I meant starting _over_.  How does that even work?”  
  
“Well,” Emma says, moving back to the counter and taking a sip of coffee before putting it down.  “We’re sort of... dating.”  
  
“The kind where you _don’t_ have sex.”  
  
“Yeah, we just... had dinner and then watched some TV and--stop making that face.”  
  
“ _What_ , I have dinner and watch TV with my _grandmother_ , Emma.”  
  
Emma chuckles.  “Okay, well, we also did at least one thing that you definitely _don’t_ do with Granny, okay, so...”  
  
She’s not sure what she expects; maybe another lewd comment, but then Ruby just sort of relaxes into a really pretty, innocent smile--one that belies her make-up and clothes and seems to go right to the heart of her.  
  
“I guess that’s how I know I’ve never been with the right person.  I’ve never been this happy about the idea of just... watching TV with someone, you know?”  
  
Emma smiles back, as Ruby sort of stares out the window, like the love of her life is going to stroll by any minute now.  “You’re young.  You’ll get there.”  
  
“Says the girl who met her--uh, Mayor Mills, when she was basically my age.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Emma says, scratching at her cheek with gloved fingers for a moment, and then picking up her coffee again with a wry smile.  “I was pretty damn young then, too.”  
  
…  
  
There’s a post-it on her monitor when she gets in; Graham’s hooked scribble tells her that Kathryn Nolan is taking her to “M.A.” at three and that he’ll see her on Saturday for the hunting party.  After a glance at his office to make sure he’s really gone, she flips the office radio to an 80s rock station and props her feet up on her desk before reaching for her phone.  
  
Regina picks up on the third ring and says, “If you can’t make tonight--”  
  
“No, I’m fine, I just wanted to let you know that I’m off to talk to Jefferson Lewis today; I meant to tell you yesterday but, what the hell, I figured we could keep the work stuff in the office and just...”  
  
“Eat pie together,” Regina supplies, gentler than Emma’s used to hearing.  
  
“Yeah.”  Emma toys with the cord on the phone for a few seconds and then says, “I’m not sure this isn’t a total waste of time, but this guy sounds like a complete creep, so I guess I’m happy to go over there and rule out that he’s trying to mess with you.”  
  
Regina makes a small noise and then sighs.  “There’s something very pitiable about him.  Don’t get me wrong, I find him incredibly off-putting, but …”  
  
“It’s the kid thing, isn’t it.”  
  
“Yes,” Regina says, and then clears her throat audibly.  “Which is also the most terrifying part of his psychosis.  The idea that--without warning, a total stranger could assume that Henry is _theirs_ and try to take him--”  
  
“Hey.  We’d never let that happen,” Emma says, letting the cord snap away from her hand.  “Anyway, how many people this nuts can there really _be_ in Storybrooke?   I think we’re probably okay, on that front.”  
  
“Either way; be careful with him.  He knows how to manipulate you into feeling his plight, and--”  
  
Emma smiles a little, despite herself.  “It’s kind of my job to not get played by criminals, Regina.  I’ll be okay.”  
  
“Yes, of course you will.  See you at seven, then?”  
  
“Yeah--oh, and can you make sure that Henry is wearing his raincoat and brings a pair of boots?”  
  
“Dare I ask?” Regina asks.  
  
“I’ll explain when I get him.  See you soon,” Emma says, hanging up and then reaching for the dial on the radio, cranking it up just a little bit more as she counts down to her first legitimate bit of investigative work in _months_ now.  
  
…  
  
Though she’s been in the hospital several times since more or less settling in Storybrooke, she’s never been where Kathryn drags her now.    
  
A door to the side of the reception carries them down a narrow, concrete hallway, which leads to a stairwell at the back; all that marks it is a big zero, and the floor below, a big negative one; the rest of it as grey and bland as the corridor they just exited.  A cold chill chases up Emma’s spine and she peers up at the ceiling, which someone has bothered to paint white.  
  
“The asylum’s underground?” she asks, jumping when her voice echoes around them.  
  
“No; I thought so too, at first, but the hospital grounds slope down, so the mental health clinic is actually parallel to the ground at the back,” Kathryn says, opening a nondescript blue door and holding it open for her.  
  
A thin-faced, rodent-like receptionist barely looks up at them as they move in front of her desk, and then pushes a clipboard towards them.  
  
“Name of patient?” she then asks, somehow predictably nasal.  
  
“Jefferson Lewis,” Kathryn says, jotting down her initials and the time and then moving the clipboard to Emma, who does the same.  “I’m his attorney; this is Deputy Swan--”  
  
“I know who she is,” the receptionist says, smacking gum loudly just once and then taking the clipboard back, with a dismissive look at Emma.  “Meeting room’s at the back end of the hall--you just wait right there and I’ll get Frank to bring the patient around.”  
  
Kathryn nods and starts walking again; it takes Emma a second to catch up, and then she hisses, “Who’s _Frank_?”  
  
“One of the keepers,” Kathryn says, with a small smile.  “Don’t let this place give you the creeps; it’s not nearly as bad as it looks.  The patient rooms are sizable and they all get to pick a craft of their choosing, with unlimited time to explore it outside of therapy commitments.”  
  
“What did Jefferson pick?” Emma asks, peering through the occasional window in the doors they’re passing right by; in one, a man is sitting and staring intently at a wooden ship, and in another, a woman is singing a song while hitting her head against the wall repeatedly.  It’s enough to snap her out of any curiosity she has, and she looks straight ahead, at the door with a small metal plaque saying VISITORS next to it.  
  
“He makes hats,” Kathryn says, as they reach the door.  She pauses and then presses down on the handle, before gesturing for Emma to go in.  
  
“Hats,” Emma says, stepping inside.  There’s a couch and two comfy chairs; it’s not exactly what she’s picturing, but then the asylum doesn’t deal with _criminals_ so much as people who just can’t cope with reality, which...  
  
She shakes her head and takes a seat in one of the chairs.  
  
“Yeah, he’s--I mean, I know this is a ridiculous thing to say, but he’s really very talented at it.  If it didn’t seem unethical, I’d probably wear one to George’s annual Fourth of July party.”  
  
“George?” Emma asks, as Kathryn settles next to her and unbuttons her suit jacket.  
  
“David’s father.  He lives in New Haven; we head over there for at least part of the summer,” Kathryn says, with a small smile.  “Our parents get along very well and David likes being near the ocean, so...”  
  
“Ah,” Emma says, pressing her hands together and then interlacing her fingers.  “Sounds... fun?”  
  
Kathryn gives her a knowing smile, and then straightens as a burly, curtain-haired man opens the door and says, “I’ll be outside if you need anything”, in a robotic monotone.  
  
The next person to step in through the door is obviously the patient; dressed in a short-sleeved white shirt and blue scrub-like pants, on bare feet, he pads inside and then smiles thinly upon spotting Kathryn.  
  
“My _defense_ counsel.  To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”  
  
He’s not what Emma is expecting.  For one thing, his hair is styled immaculately, and his eyes are sharply observant, swooping to her badge and then somewhat mockingly back up to her face.  If not for the obvious nuthouse get-up, she’d have thought him just … some _guy_.  He’s definitely not foaming at the mouth, ranting about other worlds and how he belongs there.  
  
“We have some questions for you,” Kathryn says, bending down and rifling through her bag for a pair of thin-framed reading glasses, and then a notepad.  “About any correspondence with the outside world you have had since...”  
  
“Roughly three years ago,” Emma says, as Jefferson sits down on the couch and then curls up into one corner, stretching his legs out onto the remainder.  He’s clearly posing for them, and when he taps his fingers to his chin she almost smiles.    
  
He’s putting on a performance, and why not?  It’s unlikely he gets many visitors.  
  
“Three years ago.  And you’re expecting me to, what, keep a detailed record of all the mail I’ve sent, all the calls I’ve made?  One would think that a warrant would help get that information without my cooperation, so... maybe I’m misunderstanding how the legal system here works, _again_ , but it sounds like you don’t have much of anything to go on.”  
  
“We don’t,” Emma says, before Kathryn can say anything else.  “Answer the questions and we’ll be out of your hair.”  
  
Jefferson studies her face for a few seconds, blankly, and then unexpectedly grins.  “Honesty.  I like that.  It’s not what I’d expect from the Mayor’s plaything, but hey.  I guess I’ve been away for a while.  Maybe she’s learned to stop lying.”  
  
Emma’s eyebrow lifts a little, no matter how she tries to stop it, and Jefferson smirks at the obvious blow.  
  
“I guess not.  But you have to understand; leopards don’t change spots, _Deputy Sheriff_.  At most, they just lay low for a while.”  
  
“Is that what you’re doing?  Laying low?” Emma asks.  
  
Kathryn clears her throat and says, “Look--Jefferson, if you could just--”  
  
“I have made exactly one phone call in the last three years.  It was to an admirer of sorts; goes by the name of Gold.  I told him to stop writing me, because I wasn’t interested in what he was selling.”  
  
“Which was?”  
  
Jefferson’s mouth sets in an ugly way for a few seconds.  “He seemed to think that with a few _lies_ about Grace, my situation could improve.  Said he was a _father_ who understood, but that’s obviously a load of _crap._ I doubt he even has a child.  No one who really understands would ever suggest that I lie to my Gracie about who she really is, who we _are_.”  
  
The insanity doesn’t so much appear as just _burst_ out of him, all at once, and he pulls his knees up to his chest and then rubs at his hair for a few seconds, before lowering his hand again and looking at Kathryn.  
  
“How is she?”  
  
Kathryn doesn’t blink, and just says, “Jefferson, you know we’re not--”  
  
“You _know_.  Don’t pretend you don’t.  You watch her just like you watch me; you’d know if anything was wrong.  So _tell_ me how she is, and I’ll answer your questions.”  
  
Emma glances at Kathryn and gives a small nod, and after a second, Kathryn sighs.  
  
“She’s well.  She’s in the sixth grade now; her grades are good, she has many friends, and she’s healthy.”  
  
“And happy,” Jefferson stresses, almost spitting the word out.  “She’s _happy_ , right?”  
  
“Yes.  She’s happy.”  
  
He rocks back and forth a few times and then looks back at Emma.  “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, and anyone who _thinks_ they understand what it’s like is just _lying_ to me.  The doctors here, telling me that I can get better, that I can learn what is real and what isn’t all over again--they can’t handle the idea that it’s _all_ true.  That this world, and where I’m from--that it all exists.  That once we get back there, she’ll remember who I am and we’ll be happy together.  All I have to do is find a way back.”  
  
“And how do you plan on doing that?” Emma asks, even though she’s pretty sure she doesn’t want to know.  
  
Jefferson opens his mouth, like he’s going to answer, but then deflates and clamps his lips together, shaking his head.  “Can’t tell you.  You’re with _her_.”  
  
“You really hate the Mayor, don’t you,” Emma says, leaning back in her chair; maybe if it sounds like a casual question, they’ll get more out of him than if they acknowledge that it’s why they’re here.    
  
“ _Hate?_ ” Jefferson repeats, before laughing a little sickly.  “Hate is such a funny word.  I hate--this _world_.  I hate being stuck here. I hate not being able to go back, no matter how hard I try.  The Mayor... she’s just part of the _machine_ here, don’t you get that?  I thought she’d be different because she has a son, but she’s just as bad as everyone else.  She _told_ me she understood and I believed her, and look where that got me.”  
  
“Sounds like you’d like to make her pay, huh?” Emma asks.  
  
He smiles, scratching at the back of his head.  “If I did, _why_ would I tell you?”  
  
“Well, you’re not going to make it happen either way, pal, because you’re stuck here and you know it--so what’s the fantasy?”  
  
The smile slowly fades from his face, and a darkness washes over it before he leans forward.  “What do you think?”  
  
“I think you try to ruin her,” Emma says, tapping her fingers against her thigh.  “I think you go after her job, her house, her money--”  
  
Jefferson laughs again, and then just shakes his head.  “And what will _that_ teach her?”  
  
They look at each other silently for a few seconds, and then Kathryn says, “You’d go after Henry.”  
  
It earns Kathryn an almost appreciative look, until Jefferson sobers again and swings his legs off the couch.  “If she knew what it was like to lose her son; if she _felt_ what I feel, knowing he’s out there and not knowing how to get him _back_ , she would’ve never taken Grace away from me.  She would’ve let me _try_ to make her remember, to take her home.”  
  
“That would’ve been pretty damn illegal,” Emma says, glancing up at him as he stands.  
  
“It would’ve been _right_ ,” Jefferson says, flatly, and then runs both of his hands through his hair, fixing it without a mirror, before dropping them by his side.  “I take it from these stupid questions that someone’s been trying to make her life miserable.  It wasn’t me, so--why don’t you just go and try to set up someone _else_ who hasn’t committed a real crime, and let me go back to my work.”  
  
“Your work,” Emma repeats.  
  
Jefferson’s mouth twitches, and then he just says, “Hats don’t make themselves, Deputy.  Tell your _wife_ I said hello, and I’m thinking of her.”  
  
He heads for the door without waiting for a response, which is probably for the best; there isn’t really one forthcoming, and after a moment, Emma just sags back into the chair and looks at Kathryn.  
  
“There is _no_ way he’s ever getting out of here without anyone knowing, and even if he did--”  
  
“He’d go for Paige before he goes for Henry.  I know,” Emma says, rubbing at her cheek.  “Can we swing by his room, on the way out?  I don’t have a warrant, but looking’s free.”  
  
Kathryn nods, and leads her over to a secondary wing; in passing, they see Jefferson head to what is probably the rec room, and he stares at her soundlessly for a few seconds, probably just to see if she’ll flinch.  
  
She doesn’t.  
  
“Here,” Kathryn says, knocking on a door just marked _13_ and stepping to the side of it.  
  
When Emma peers through it, she takes an involuntary step back and looks at Kathryn again.  “Jesus, you weren’t kidding when you said _he makes hats_.”  
  
“He doesn’t care what happens to the ones he completes.  Just the current one in progress.  Every year, we have to purge the ones in his room because he runs out of space,” Kathryn says, rubbing at her neck a little and then exhaling softly.  “I have no idea what he’s thinking, in making them.  It’s the one thing that gives him drive while he’s in here, though, so his therapists all think that it’s probably a good thing.  It’s not _Paige_ , you know, so...”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, suppressing a shudder and then turning away from the door.  “Okay.  I’ve seen enough. Let’s get out of here.”  
  
…  
  
Her suspect list is dwindling by the minute, because with Gold out of the picture--more or less, anyway--and Jefferson Lewis definitely gone, the only person left for her to interrogate is her mother-in-law.  
  
She’d rather stick hot pokers in her eyes, honestly, and so she goes through the pictures again, in a somewhat fruitless attempt to find that one missing link that will point her at who _took_ them.  They’re fairly high quality for what they are; close range, so obviously taken by someone with substantial experience at photography.  A professional, but not someone who _spies_ for a living.    
  
She taps her pen against the desk a few times and then sighs, shoving the pictures back into a drawer and locking them away.    
  
When she reaches for her beanie, ready to head out and get Henry, she spins it around in her hands a few times and then settles it onto her head with a sigh.  
  
The first five minutes of that conversation with Jefferson Lewis had been totally fine, and then after that...  
  
After that, it had just been a mess of _but I’m not from this world_ and _my daughter doesn’t remember me_ and … he might as well have been talking about curses and evil witches.  
  
It’s a sick feeling, the connection that’s been teasing at the end of her mind all day, and it sends her tearing out the building past a dazed-looking Graham, who calls out at her that the hunt starts at eight tomorrow, and into her car.  
  
…  
  
The Bug is tetchy at the best of times, but in the snow it's almost hazardous, and when she arrives in front of Regina’s in one piece, it’s kind of a miracle; blankets of the stuff are coming down now, and she hasn’t fitted snow tires or even gone into get the car serviced yet, because she _still_ hasn’t paid Michael for the work he did on the engine, a few months ago now.  
  
Cursing herself and setting a reminder to settle that bill in her phone, she then steps out of the car--the door just about opens, with all the snow on the ground--and trudges up to the front door, on a path that hasn’t been shoveled recently.  She almost faceplants halfway up the drive and then just shuffles the rest of the way, until she’s on the steps and hitting the knocker.  
  
Regina’s still in her work clothes, but opens up and says, “He’s in his room, I’ll get him--”  
  
“No, hang on,” Emma says, kicking her boots against the side of the building and then peering at the doormat.  “Do you have a second?  Can we--”  
  
Concern washes over Regina’s face, but then she just steps aside.  “By all means.  If you don’t mind, I’m in the middle of making dinner--”  
  
“For yourself?” Emma starts to say, and then just yanks her boots off.  “Sorry, that’s a stupid thing to assume, actually.  You could have a guest.  Or several guests, I mean.”  
  
Regina shoots her a look when she straightens again, and then just pointedly says, “I’ve always found that cooking for one is hardly an excuse to not _cook_ , actually.”  
  
“Yeah, let’s call that our first fundamental philosophical difference,” Emma says, before gesturing for the kitchen.  “Lead the way, this really won’t take very long but--I just... kind of wanted to talk to you about it before seeing the kid.”  
  
Whatever Regina’s making smells kind of awesome, but that’s not the reason she’s there, and anyway--she just _had_ dinner here yesterday.  Still, her stomach rumbles gently as she leans against the counters and Regina heads to the stove, giving her another questioning look.  
  
“Jefferson Lewis,” Emma says, sighing softly and folding her arms together in front of her chest.  
  
“Ah,” Regina says, plainly.  “Yes.  Quite the character.”  
  
“Quite the fucking _nutjob_ , you mean.”  Another one of those unwilling shudders crawls up her spine, and she crosses her legs at the ankle just to dispel it.  “He really has it in for you, you know.”  
  
“Really?” Regina says, actually sounding mildly surprised.  “So those pictures--”  
  
“No, I don’t mean that.  I mean, I’ll try to see if I can get access to his correspondence record without a warrant, but he--he made it pretty clear that if he was going to come after you, it wouldn’t be through _me_.”  
  
Regina stills and then directs an almost murderous look at her.  “He threatened Henry.”  
  
Emma nods, gnawing on her lip.  “It’s sort of an empty threat, since he’s not going anywhere, and I don’t think he’d hurt _Henry_ so much as just--try to take him.”  
  
Regina’s nostrils flare, just once, and then she bends back over the soup she’s making.  “And you wanted to let me know?”  
  
“It’s not that, really, I mean--yeah.  I thought you should know, but I’m obviously going to keep tabs on the guy from now on.”  Emma sighs again and then glances out towards the hallway.  “I actually wanted to talk to you about... how he kind of sounded like...”  
  
“Like,” Regina prompts, when she trails off.  
  
“With all of his talk about how he’s not from this world, how he just needs to find a way _home_ so he can be with his daughter, how none of us are seeing the truth in what he’s saying... it all just reminded me of--”  
  
“Henry,” Regina says, stepping away from the stove and moving in closer to Emma, who nods and stares at the ground.  “You’re saying that lunatic sounds like our son.”  
  
“Not completely, but if Henry doesn’t get steered onto the right path...”  Emma curls her hands around the edge of the counter and then looks at Regina pleadingly.  “Are we doing the right thing, not telling him we’re trying?  I mean, if we just _tell_ him that he’s not just wrong about who you _are_ but also about how things are between us, don’t you think it’ll help him let go of all of this crap?”  
  
“I thought he was letting go just _fine_ on his own,” Regina says, in the kind of pinched way that lets on that it hurts to even have to _say_ it.  
  
Emma exhales slowly.  “There isn’t _anything_ that can persuade that Jefferson guy that he’s wrong.  I don’t want Henry going down that path; where he goes on believing this silently for the rest of his life until he just snaps.”  
  
“Of course you don’t; neither of us do,” Regina says, staring past her and out the kitchen window.  “I’ve contemplated telling him the truth; that I _am_ the villain of this piece, but that being a real villain is a lot less dramatic than the ridiculous things that that book purports.”  
  
“You’d tell him about Graham,” Emma says, feeling her face tighten as it always does, at the reminder.  “Is he … I mean, it’s none of his business, but is he even old enough to really get what that _means_?”  
  
“I obviously would spare him the details, and perhaps also leave out the part where my motivations for doing it were...”  
  
“Stupid?”  
  
It earns her a small eye roll, but then Regina just braces her hands against the countertop and lowers her head between them.  “Honestly, I don’t want to believe that this is all _actually_ going on in his head and not just a dramatic cry for attention; it’s easier to think that he made the whole thing up to force us to talk to each other than that he really believes that--”  
  
“Yeah.  You have a mausoleum full of hearts and I was sent to this world in a magical tree to kill you or make you fall in love with me, or whatever,” Emma says.  “The Grimm Brothers have nothing on that book, let me tell you.”  
  
“Catching up on your reading, I see,” Regina says, glancing at her briefly with a wry smile.  
  
“My evenings are pretty long and hard to fill,” Emma says, only averting her eyes after a moment.  “Apparently, there are only _so_ many Nicholas Sparks novels that have been turned into movies.”  
  
“What do your instincts tell you?” Regina asks, after a few seconds; an egg timer goes off in the corner, and she heads over to turn it off, but then returns to Emma’s side, this time looking at her directly.  
  
“My gut tells me that he’s pretty screwed up right now about something, but if we just show him that you’re not dangerous and I’m not _scared_ of you--”  
  
Regina sort of clucks her tongue.  “I think he needs to see more than that you’re not _afraid_ of me, dear.  A lack of fear will merely make you look brave, in his eyes.”  
  
“Yeah, fine, so we show him that we’re trying.  That we _care_.  It’s not as if we’re not going to be putting our efforts out in the public eye anyway.”  
  
Regina sobers.  “You’re right.  It’ll be hard to contextualize the campaign for him without calling it a _lie_ , which wouldn’t help with his perception of our relationship at all.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, pushing away from the counter.  “So--we tell him that we’re trying.  Leave out the part where you screwed around on me; he’s _ten_.  He doesn’t need the hi-def version of how messed up his parents are.  But maybe, if we can just let him know that… we’re back on, and I don’t think you’re evil, and we’re definitely not duelling to the death on the next full moon--”  
  
Regina laughs softly and then says, “Alas.  That would’ve made for an exciting second date.”  
  
“I liked the first one just fine,” Emma admits, after a second.  
  
It earns her an unexpectedly warm look, and then Regina just looks back to her soup.  
  
“There’s enough here for all three of us.  Perhaps you could--”  
  
“Stay?  And tell him?”  
  
Regina nods, and Emma manages a small smile.  
  
“This isn’t you using the kid as an excuse to get me to stay, is it?  Because we’ve had a few years of doing that, and I’m pretty sure we made a pact to--”  
  
“Emma, if you wanted to have dinner here every night for the rest of your life, you know you could,” Regina says, before straightening.  “But _I’m_ not the one dictating the pace here, so by all means, whenever you want to have dinner with us, just _ask_.  Don’t force your stomach to make the request for you.”  
  
Emma tries for a look of censure, but doesn’t really manage to get there.  “Hey, I had legitimate reasons for stopping by tonight; I can’t help that I’m always hungry.”  
  
“I’m merely telling you that you don’t _need_ reasons,” Regina counters, before bending down to look in the oven--which produces one hell of a view, Emma realizes just before forcing herself to look away--and then saying, “If you could just get Henry and wash your hands, the food will be ready in five.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes a little, but then mutters, “Okay” anyway, before heading out of the kitchen and up the stairs.  
  
…  
  
Henry’s playing something on his DS, but drops it as soon as she opens the door a crack and says, “Hey--”  
  
“I thought you weren’t coming,” he says, a little accusingly.  “You’re late.”  
  
“I know, I was talking to your mom,” she says, before stepping all the way into the room.  The door closes behind her and she heads over to his bed, sitting down on the end of it.  “We’re going to have dinner here first, okay, and then head out.”  
  
It’s amazing, how easy a ten year old is to read.  His face goes from surprised to slightly pleased to suspicious in the span of about three seconds, and then he just says, “Why?”  
  
“Because,” Emma says, and then sighs.  “Okay, you know what?  Why don’t _you_ tell me why you think we’re having dinner here.”  
  
Henry sits upright in his bed, and frowns before shaking his head.  “No.”  
  
“No?”  
  
“No, I’m not telling, because--I know you don’t think she’s bad, so you’re just going to think I’m making things up again.”  
  
Emma thinks of rooms drowning in hats, and closes her eyes for a few seconds.  “Okay.  You’re right.  I don’t think she’s bad.”  
  
When she opens her eyes again, Henry’s lips are tightly clamped together, like he wants to snap at her that she’s being an idiot but is holding back.  It’s an improvement, sort of, but the turmoil behind his eyes isn’t lessened by it, and she scoots a little further onto the bed and reaches for his foot, pinching it for a second.  
  
“I _don’t_.  She’s done a few crappy things, kid, and so have I.  We’ve both just made a lot of mistakes, actually.  We didn’t really talk about a lot of the things we should’ve talked about, before--”  
  
“Like what?” he asks, eagerness for an explanation winning out over mistrust.  
  
“Like--how much we care about each other,” Emma says, running a nail under his foot until he squirms away from her.  “Sometimes, if you don’t say something out loud for a long time, it becomes really hard to believe.”  
  
Henry squints at her, like this is literally the worst explanation of anything on _earth,_ and she sucks in a breath and lets it out slowly, wondering what else she can say.  
  
“Okay.  Um.  You know how in the X-Men, Rogue can’t touch anyone without hurting them?”  
  
The flabbergasted look on Henry’s face is a little priceless, but then he nods.  
  
“Okay, well, because of that, it’s pretty hard for her to let people know that she cares.  She can’t just give them a hug; so she has to try to let them know some other way.  Like, maybe by using words.  But … maybe Rogue isn’t really good at using words, either, so she doesn’t really do a good job of showing people she cares, at all.”  
  
Henry scrunches his nose up at her.  “But she wears _gloves_ , Emma, and then she can touch people.”  
  
“Right, okay,” Emma says.  “Exactly.”  
  
“Exactly?”  
  
“Yeah.  That’s--your mom and I are wearing gloves now.  That’s what’s different.”  
  
Henry frowns at her more heavily.  “You can’t _both_ be Rogue.”  
  
“Sure we can,” Emma says.  
  
Henry looks at her with unending skepticism for another few seconds, and then rolls his eyes in a way that makes her want to hug him.  “You don’t really get comics, do you.”  
  
“Maybe not, but I do get that it’s time for dinner and whatever your mom made smells pretty great, so--why don’t you go wash your hands and we’ll go down and eat it, okay?  And we can talk some more about all of this when we get downstairs.”  
  
Henry nods and starts scooting off the bed, but pauses on the edge of it and gives her a serious look.  “Emma, if you don’t think she’s evil, are you going to move back in?”  
  
She opens her mouth to tell him that it’s not that simple, but then looks at him and runs a hand over the back of his head, pulling him into a half-hug.  “We’re working on that.  Okay?”  
  
She sort of feels him nod, and then he slips past her and heads to the bathroom, and she slowly gets to her feet again and looks at his desk, where the book of fairy tales is laid out and open to a page of Snow White and Prince Charming, hugging a small, white-knitted bundle between them, and looking for all the world like they’d never let it go.  
  
That’s supposed to be _her_ , according to him, which means that somehow she’s aged twenty eight years and nobody else has aged a _minute_ , and she’s the same age as her supposed parents.  
  
If that’s the family that she’s lost because of his supposed curse, she’ll gladly take the one that’s waiting for her downstairs, however crooked and in need of patching up it is.


	16. Chapter 16

It’s hard to tell what the excitement in Henry’s eyes is being caused by: the idea of traipsing around a forest with Emma--because yeah, until recently, she hasn’t been around often enough to really commit to _doing_ things with the kid on the weekend--or the idea of the hunting trip itself.  
  
Hunting is a vague rite of passage in the stories he’s obsessed with; Prince Charming slays a dragon to prove his worth after years of herding goats, and even Snow White learns to fend for herself out in the woods with her blades and bow and arrow.  Then there’s the Huntsman, of course--she thinks, shooting a look at Graham, who is checking everyone’s equipment and licensing before they head off--who supposedly cries every time he takes an innocent life, and …  
  
It takes everything in her to not show her surprise when Granny shows up in a long dress, thick tights, a cap tied tightly around her head and … a crossbow under one arm.  
  
Ruby trails along after her, a backpack full of lunch treats and coffee strapped across her shoulders, and beams when she sees them.  “Finally!”  
  
Henry peers up at the sky and Emma almost whacks him in the back of the head, opting instead to mutter, “It’s not a full moon and also she’s not _really_ a werewolf.”  
  
“Yeah, but... she has a really strong sense of smell, Emma.  She’ll be able to tell us where the turkeys are,” Henry counters, in a stage-whisper, before squirming away from Ruby when she attempts to ruffle his hair.  
  
“Your Gran’s pretty... intense,” Emma says, with another look at the woman she’s used to spotting in the back of the Diner, rocking in a chair in the kitchen and knitting booties for Sean and Ashley’s brood.  
  
“It’s just once a year and she loves it,” Ruby confesses, before looking at Emma’s sides and then raising her eyebrow.  “No rifle or bow for you?”  
  
“Not this year.  We’re just here to observe,” Emma says, before spotting a familiar blond head past Ruby and sticking up her hand in greeting.  
  
Ruby turns and then gives her a probing look.  “Still consorting with the _enemy_ , I see.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes and then tugs on the hood on Henry’s coat.  “Come on.  David said he’d tell you the basics about hunting today, if you like.”  
  
Henry’s off in a flash, with an exuberant “ _Hi Mr. Nolan!”_ that has David looking quietly pleased.  He unstraps his hunting bow and shows it to Henry, who touches it tentatively, like it’s charged with a kind of magic that the eye can’t see.    
  
Weapons are like that, Emma thinks, before looking at Graham, who scans the crowd and then claps his hands together.  
  
“All right, welcome all--most of you will know the drill by now, but let me reiterate the basic safety guidelines or those of you observing,” he says, with a small look at Emma.  “We stay together in a group; when arms or bows are drawn, everyone not using one stands back an appropriate distance.  Don’t veer off the paths unless I tell you to, and don’t verify a kill unless I’ve given the all clear.  Are we good?”  
  
A murmur of agreement sounds from the crowd, and then Graham starts walking, a huge German shepherd that Emma hasn’t seen before at his side; but then, what does she really know about Graham?  
  
She squeezes her eyes shut for a second, because the answer to that will never _not_ be uncomfortably linked to the scar on his upper left arm, the hair on his chest, and the way his face can freeze in a panic when he’s caught doing something he shouldn’t be.  
  
Other than that--yeah, she doesn’t know him at all.  
  
…  
  
David is really good with Henry.  
  
It’s not something that she didn’t know, but she’s rarely seen it in practice; the times when Regina’s asked the Nolans to watch Henry are few and far between.  Other couples might’ve wanted babysitting, but Regina’s always seemed uncomfortable with the idea of letting Henry out of her sight for any period of time--and anyway, even at a very early age, the kid knew to knock before storming into their bedroom.  
  
Making sure the kid was exposed to _men_ just never seemed necessary, but seeing him gazing with open admiration at David, who is pointing out all sorts of things about the woods around them with a small, fond smile on his face, she wonders if her own reluctance to get _out_ there as a family of some kind has had a negative effect on Henry, somehow.  
  
It’s not too late to remedy that, though, and she makes a mental note to talk to Regina about maybe having Kathryn and David over to dinner.  However much it would feel like a small betrayal to Mary Margaret, it’s also something that just sounds like it would be... nice.  
  
Though, of course, then there’s the odd logistics involved in inviting people over to a dinner in a house that she technically doesn’t live in anymore, and--  
  
She stumbles forward, and if not for some hair-sharp reflexes on Ruby’s part, would’ve landed on her face in the snow.  
  
“Easy there.  Where were you just now?” Ruby says, as she lifts her feet up properly again and stares at the ground below.  
  
“Just--thinking.”  
  
“About?” Ruby asks, almost immediately adding, “You don’t have to tell me, if you don’t want to.”  
  
Emma shrugs and shoves her gloved hands into her coat pockets, taking a few deliberate steps forward and then glancing up at the sun, just barely peeking through the woods.  “No, it’s fine.  I was just thinking about … what Henry’s missed out on by not having a dad, I guess.”  
  
Ruby wrinkles her nose and then skeptically looks ahead.  “I don’t think he’s missed out on anything.”  
  
“Did you know Daniel?” Emma asks.  
  
“Other than as some guy who came by and got the occasional coffee to go, not really.  I was just a kid when he died, and horses have always kind of freaked me out,” Ruby says, sidestepping a puddle of melting snow and then inching closer to Emma again.  “But that’s not really what I meant.  I never knew my dad, but I know what it’s like to have family that loves me.  So what’s there to miss?”  
  
Emma forces a small smile and looks at Henry again, now laughing at something David is mimicking with a funny face and a half-run forward in the snow.  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”  
  
Henry shoots her a look over his shoulder that’s pure happiness, and she feels her smile quickly become genuine; with a quick, “I’ll be back” to Ruby she quickens her own pace until she can join him and say, “You look like you’re up to no good, kid.”  
  
“I do _not_ ,” Henry says, in a perfectly affronted imitation of his mother; all that’s missing is hands set in his side.  “Mr. Nolan’s just teaching me about how you can tell if an animal’s been on the path, by looking at tracks.”  
  
“And what does this path tell us?” Emma says, looking ahead at where the road forks; on the left is the old Toll Bridge, and the right takes them further into the woods, near a cabin that... well.  
  
If her cheeks pink, David will blame it on the cold, and so she just plasters on a neutral expression and pretends to care about his explanation about prints and crushed leaves and disturbed mud.  Henry is eating all of it up, though, and when David says, “You know what, now that you know what to look for, why don’t you go and join Graham and show him that you could lead us to a turkey?”  
  
Henry looks at her questioningly and she smiles.  “Go on.”  
  
Something about his running is still clumsy and childlike, in his almost-too-big windbreaker and his floppy hair, but the way he confidently weaves around the other citizens of Storybrooke--including a hairpin-focused Granny--says that he’s growing up.  Maybe a little too fast, given the last few months, but... it would’ve happened anyway, and God knows there are worse places for him to get a rough reality check.  
  
“He’s a great kid,” David says, jolting her out of her thought.  
  
“Yeah, he is,” Emma agrees, and then, after a second, adds, “Thanks, I guess.”  
  
“It was a compliment.  He was really sheltered and shy before you came into his life, but he’s really opened up since then.  It’s good.”  
  
It’s ridiculous to feel such a burst of pride over how Henry’s developed, given that she’s pretty sure he would’ve gone down a good path with or without her, but when David sort of nudges her in her shoulder and looks at her knowingly, she ducks her head and smiles.  “Yeah, okay.”  
  
“How’d your date go?” he then asks.  
  
“Good,” she says, feeling abruptly ridiculous, and then wondering if this counts as _girl talk_ , even though it’s taking place with a handsome man holding an aluminum hunting bow.  
  
“Yeah?  Pie a success?” he asks, before grinning at her in a way that makes him look much younger than he is.  
  
She blushes furiously and then sort of kicks some snow in his direction.  “It _was_ , actually.  She really liked it, and Mary Margaret’s great with baked goods so--”  
  
“Yeah, she is,” David says, before looking away guiltily.  
  
Emma sighs.  “David, honestly, eating her cupcakes isn’t a crime unless that’s some sort of ridiculous euphemism for--”  
  
He laughs, sounding embarrassed, and then just sighs.  “Yeah.  Wouldn’t life be easy if it was normal for adult men and women to be friends, huh?”  
  
“I think you two can be, if you want,” Emma says, watching as Henry points off to something in the distance and Graham holds up a hand for them all to stop, scanning the treeline with a hand above his eyes.    
  
For one ridiculous second, she considers turning around to see if Ruby is also sniffing the air, but then she looks back at David, who’s looking at her with a slightly sad expression.  
  
“Seriously, you guys have _never_ crossed the line.  If you want her in your life, you can be her friend, okay?  God knows she could use a few more good ones.  It’s just about... boundaries.”  
  
He nods after a second, and the party gets moving again, though Graham spins on his heels and says, “We’ve got something; try to keep it down, everyone, or we’ll be eating Chinese for Thanksgiving this year.”  
  
The crowd sort of laughs and drops conversation to a murmur, and David steps in closer to her and says, “Do you think you could ever be friends with Regina?”  
  
It’s an odd question; her eyebrow arches without her permission, but then she stares at the footprints muddying the snow up ahead, including the small pair that clearly belong to Henry, and takes a deep breath.  “You know, two months ago I would’ve told you not to be crazy, but now... yeah.  If friends was all we were capable of, it’s what I’d take.”  
  
“Because you love her,” David says, before smiling crookedly.  “And therein lies the rub.”  
  
“Yeah, I guess you can’t have it all,” Emma says, and then sighs.  “Well, maybe it’ll be easier for you guys to be friends now that she’s also trying to move on.”  
  
The way David yanks on her sleeve has her losing her footing all over again, but he manages to hold her upright with sheer force.  “What?”  
  
Emma stares at him in open confusion, and then closes her eyes.  “Crap.  She hasn’t told you.”  
  
“Hasn’t told me _what_ , Emma?”  
  
Abruptly, she feels angry with him, _and_ with Mary Margaret.  “Seriously, you two meet once a week on supposedly platonic coffee dates and she didn’t _tell_ you that she was dating someone?  What the hell _do_ you talk about?”  
  
The way that David’s face turns a chalky shade of white tells her that he really had no idea, and then his mouth sets.  “Who is it?”  
  
“Wow, I’m going to just put a thought out there--maybe that’s none of your business, seeing as how your _friend_ Mary Margaret didn’t tell you,” she says, sharply.  
  
He lets go of her sleeve and then runs a hand over his eyes, before looking at her apologetically.  “Sorry.  You’re right, this isn’t--”  
  
“No, you know what?  It probably _is_ your business, at least a little, but maybe don’t drag me into the middle of it any more than I already am.  Kathryn’s sort of my _friend_ now, David, and I was going to invite you two over to dinner but--”  
  
“At … _your_ house?” he asks, looking horrified.  
  
“Yeah, nothing sounded more entertaining to me than eating a pork chop with you and your wife and your almost-mistress.  Pass the salt, please,” she says, rolling her eyes.  “I meant at Regina’s, obviously.”  
  
“Oh,” David says, before shaking his head.  “God, I’m sorry.  I--really shouldn’t be reacting this way at all, and actually, dinner sounds great.”  
  
Emma swallows a few times, and then mutters, “Sorry you had to find out this way.  I thought she would’ve told you.”  
  
“Yeah,” David says, shouldering his bow as Graham starts steering then off the path.  “So did I.”  
  
…  
  
She has Henry in front of her, her hands on his shoulders, as Graham calls the party to a halt with a raised hand, right before the path is obstructed by a large, old tree trunk.  The next hand gesture is four fingers upright, and Emma bends down and whispers, “What is he doing?”  
  
“There's four turkeys,” Henry whispers back, his eyes focused but a little wary as well.  “I think that’s what Mr. Nolan said.”  
  
A few additional hand gestures follow that neither she nor the kid understand at all, but Graham lowers himself to one knee, takes an arrow out of his quiver and silently nocks it.  She holds her breath, and feels Henry do the same, as Graham rises to his feet again, bow still facing the ground.  
  
He motions and David and Granny silently move forward, as does the pharmacist (his name is Tom, Emma thinks but isn’t sure) and the broad-shouldered guy that Henry pointed out as _Mr. Todd,_ his gym teacher.  The latter two guys have rifles, and after another direction from Graham, move away from the crowd with bows and settle low to the ground next to the trunk of a felled tree.  
  
The whole atmosphere is incredibly tense, as Granny checks her bolt one final time and David raises his bow, and on Graham’s mark, the dog is set loose and all five of the hunters fire at once.  
  
The cacophony of sound that breaks out is horrifying; turkeys, as it turns out, _scream_ when they get struck by something, and what follows is screeching and the fluttering of feathers.  Emma can’t decide if she wants to cover Henry’s eyes or his ears, before wondering if it would make her a bad parent if she just covered her own.  
  
Graham calls out, “We got two, that’s one down for me and for Mrs. Lucas--at least two more towards the creek, flying east, let’s go” and the men all leap over the felled tree and start a chase of sorts.  Granny rises to her feet more slowly and turns around, raising her eyebrows at Ruby.  
  
“Go on then, girl--help me look at what we’ve got.”  
  
Ruby grimaces, mumbling, “Here comes the fun part” at Emma in passing, and Emma ducks down and looks at Henry.  
  
“You okay, kid?”  
  
He nods, but it’s a little weak.  “Are they going to kill the other turkeys?”  
  
“Depends on if they injured them or not.  If they hit them, they have to put them down, but otherwise I think they’re going to let them go.”  
  
“So they can make more turkeys, for next year,” Henry says, pulling his shoulders back and then peering around her.  “Can we go see the ones they shot?”  
  
“Yeah, if Granny and Ruby will let us,” Emma says, turning around and then tugging Henry forward to the tree trunk the others have now climbed over or around.  
  
“Is it going to be really gross, Emma?” Henry asks.  
  
The way he’s trying to sound brave is actually really cute, and she smiles at him and then concedes, “Probably.  There’ll be a little blood, but Granny looks like she knows what she’s doing with that bow so hopefully it just went--”  
  
“Into the heart, right?”  
  
A shadow of sorts passes over Henry’s face and Emma nods, before holding out her hand and saying, “Okay--over you go.”  
  
He scrambles over the trunk with about as much grace as an elephant, but lands cleanly on the other side, and she opts to vault over it herself before putting a hand on his back again and moving him in closer.  
  
Granny is cleaning off a bolt to the side as Ruby, looking a little morose, ties the turkey’s legs together and looks up at them.  Henry tentatively steps over to her and then says, “Why are you tying it up?  Isn’t it--”  
  
“Yeah, it is, but we’ll have to carry it back to the trucks and this way it’s going to be easier to lift this little guy up and take him with us,” Ruby explains, as Henry kneels next to her and then very carefully looks over the bird.  
  
Emma keeps an ear peeled for another shot being fired further into the wood, but she can't even hear them call out to each other, so the men have to be fairly far out.  It means that the first shots maimed, and not very effectively at that, which means there are now turkeys speed-limping through the forest.    
  
Whatever she was expecting hunting to be like, she wasn’t--  
  
A loud squawk sounds from her right and she jumps, before spinning and seeing a definitely not-maimed, also definitely seriously pissed turkey coming for them from the woods.  It's got a bright red head and at three feet tall, that's not something to just ignore.  
  
“Oh shit,” she then breathes, before snapping her head around to Ruby. “Get him out of here, we’re going to have to--”  
  
“ _Don’t move,_ ” Granny barks at her, raising her crossbow a second time and fiddling with the bolt.  “It’s the male--he’ll have a score to settle with us now and you’re making a mighty fine target in that red jacket, Deputy.”  
  
Emma stares at her coat and asks, “Should I take it--”  
  
The bird makes its approach, wobbling and screeching, and then turns towards one of the kills on the ground--well, its _mate_ , she’s going to guess--before flapping its wings wildly and heading right for her.  
  
“Granny, I don’t know how much longer don’t move--” Emma says, as the bird yips a few more times, accelerating rapidly.  
  
“Emma, _run_ ,” Henry yells at her, and even though she probably shouldn’t be taken advice from a ten year old on how to deal with an irate wild bird, moving sounds like a pretty damn good idea.  
  
She starts backing away as fast as she can, heading further into the trees.  Her progress is terrible because she’s moving backwards and these aren’t her running boots, but it’s probably more important that she stays upright than that she outsprints a fucking _bird._ It’s way faster than she is, either way; and what the hell is taking Granny so long?  That bolt isn’t being released; all she’s hearing, next to the bird’s noises, is Henry’s panicked instructions to _“shoot it before it gets Emma!_ ”  
  
She’s not religious, but as she reaches the trees she’s heading for, she sends up a prayer that Granny’s eyesight is spectacular for a woman her age, and her hands are steady a second time around, because she’s not going to be able to get away from this thing.  
  
Her feet slip and slide in the wet forest ground, layered with thin, sludge-like snow, pretty much constantly, but she manages to stay upright and finally chances a look over her shoulder to make sure she’s not backing right _into_ a tree--  
  
Only to yelp when the bird is _right_ on her.  Her legs _do_ give in then, boots getting zero purchase on the ground as she skitters backwards, and the last thing she thinks before her head hits the ground is _Jesus, is the Roadrunner a turkey?_  
  
Then, all she sees is gray and blue stars, splitting apart in her vision.  
  
…  
  
The next ten minutes are kind of a blur.  
  
She knows she throws up; she knows that someone helps her to her feet.  There’s a dead turkey right by her--maybe more than one, because sometimes it’s like there are three--and for some reason, this girl in a red coat keeps asking her to say her name, which she wants to, but--  
  
Then there’s a car and it rattles her.  She doesn’t know how she got there, but it’s okay, she’s okay.  She throws up again because everything is moving too much.  A kid is in the car with her; his name is...   She knows his name, she really does.  It’s....  
  
She tries to tell him she’s okay, but--  
  
...  
  
Her head throbs.  
  
Mostly at the back--or, no.  She manages to open an eye and the pain travels to the front, and then straight down to her stomach, which rebels something fierce against the idea of her seeing anything, but especially that bright overhead light.  
  
The people talking--yelling?--aren’t helping.  
  
She takes a deep breath and thinks.  Hunting; David didn’t know about Whale; Henry wanted to see the turkeys... right, the turkey.  
  
A turkey tried to kill her.  
  
She’s in enough pain where it’s evident that she’s still alive, and tries to open her eyes again.  The room swims, and she groans, which at least shuts everyone _up_.  
  
“Everyone, outside,” a vaguely familiar voice says, when she covers her eyes with her hand and tries to sit upright.  
  
“But that’s my _mom_ ,” Henry protests; she hears someone else, male and steady, murmur something at him and then there’s silence.  
  
Her third attempt at opening her eyes is fairly successful, and she’s met with a concerned look from Dr. Whale.  
  
“Concussion, right?” she says, when he opens his mouth to ask.  
  
“You have a few stitches at the back of your head, and yeah, it got scrambled pretty good.  How are you feeling?”  
  
“Like I hit the ground running, head-first,” Emma says, slowly trying to sit upright a little more and wincing when it makes the room seem brighter, somehow.  “Can you... maybe do something about the lighting?"  
  
“In a second.  How many fingers am I holding up?”  
  
“Three; Obama; this is a hospital, my name is Emma Swan or Emma Mills, depending who you ask.  Um, that’s my kid out there, and you slept with my roommate two nights ago,” she rattles off.  
  
He looks stunned and then laughs a little, running a hand through his hair.  “Right, you definitely know who you are and where you are.  Can I have a quick look at your eyes?”  
  
She would roll her eyes, but figures it’s going to hurt, so just motions with her hand for him to get on with it.  A penlight zips past her vision and she swoons again, but then Dr. Whale shuts it off and says, “All right.  We’ll run you through a scan, make sure there’s nothing more serious going on, but you’re presenting with all the signs of what you'd call a concussion--so--”  
  
“Staying awake, no driving, no alcohol, no sex,” she says, leaning back against the pillow again.  
  
“Well, that last one isn’t technically off limits, but I really doubt you’ll be up for it,” he says, sticking the penlight in his pocket and then reaching for her chart, jotting down a few notes on it.  
  
She smiles faintly, almost despite herself, and then says, “Did I ruin the hunt for everyone?”  
  
“Nah, most of the party’s still out there; David Nolan brought you in.”  
  
“Right, okay--well, let everyone know I’m all right and if they can just call--”  
  
She shuts up abruptly when a commotion breaks out by the reception area and then looks over to see a frantic-looking Regina nearly assaulting the receptionist on duty when whatever she’s asking isn’t answered quickly enough; that’s followed by Mary Margaret pulling Regina back and getting manhandled off, and finally a shouted, “ _Mom_ , she’s here” from Henry, which brings the scene to an abrupt halt.  
  
Her head throbs all over again and she grimaces, before looking at Whale.  “Any chance you can hook me up with some really, really strong drugs that will knock me out right now?”  
  
He chuckles and then passes her chart over to a nurse and says, “MTBI; CT to rule out complications, but the patient has been conscious throughout and appears to no longer be disoriented.”  
  
The nurse disappears again and she bites her lip and says, “Seriously--”  
  
“We’ll give you something for the _pain,_ ” Dr. Whale promises, and she sighs, because that’s going to be acetaminophen at best, maybe ibuprofen if she’s lucky.  
  
She closes her eyes and says, “Okay.”  
  
Telling him Regina and Henry can come in is kind of a moot point when Regina’s already bursting through the doors and snapping, “ _How_ could you be so stupid?” at her, looking absolutely furious.  
  
“Hey, this was completely not my fault, okay.  A wild turkey came after me--” Emma starts to say, squinting at the foot of the bed where Regina is holding Henry to her front like he’s a safety blanket of some kind.    
  
“Yes, as happens to _so many people_.  I’m sure you did _nothing_ to provoke it.”  
  
Emma feels her mouth fall open.  “Okay, how do you _provoke_ a … freaking turkey?”  
  
Henry makes a face and says, “It came out of nowhere, Mom.  It just went for her.”  
  
“You two should have never been on that trip to begin with,” Regina spits out.  “Hunting is for primitives who can’t get their food at the _supermarket_ the way anyone with common sense does.  I mean, truly, do you think it’ll _taste_ better after you kill it?”  
  
“But we weren’t even _hunting_ , we were just _looking_ ,” Henry says, in that plaintive whine of being ten years old and very misunderstood.  The way he’s standing up for her is kind of cute, but not making Regina any calmer; she’s basically shaking with suppressed rage now, and Emma rubs at her eyes, until that, too, makes her head hurt.  
  
“Regina--what do you want me to say?  It was an accident, okay?”  
  
“And how is _that_ supposed to make it any better?” Regina hisses.  
  
It’s only when she manages to catch sight of Regina’s eyes that she stops trying to explain, because all of a sudden, everything makes sense.  “Okay.  Come here a sec.”  
  
Regina doesn't budge; just curls her lip. "I’m not moving until you tell me why I had to find out you were in the hospital from your _roommate_."  
  
Emma looks out the waiting room, where Mary Margaret and David are pretty much not talking to each other, and sighs. "She's not my emergency contact, Regina.”  
  
Regina’s lip somehow dips even lower.  “Really.”  
  
“Yeah, _really_.  I guess David just called her because he wasn’t sure what was going on with you and me.”  
  
“So who the hell _is_ your emergency contact?” Regina demands, her eyes blazing.  
  
Emma tries to make herself as small as possible in the bed, which doesn’t really work, and then grudgingly admits, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have one set up--but since everyone in town knows--"  
  
"I see,” Regina says, icily.  “What a glaring oversight on my part, not reminding you that it’s sort of _customary_ to indicate your _spouse_ as an emergency contact at the moment where your relationship becomes _serious_.  I suppose it is yet _another_ one of those things that I should’ve probably explained to you when I bullied you into signing that partnership agreement."  
  
Henry is starting to look a little worried and Emma briefly wonders where her aspirin is, because she can’t take much more of this without her head exploding.  She looks at Regina a little pleadingly.  "Okay, I get that you're pissed but can we do this later?  My head--"  
  
Regina's eyes blaze at her. "And what if there hadn't _been_ a later?"  
  
Henry tips his head back in shock, staring up at his now obviously-losing-it mother, and then back at Emma, his tiny face paling acutely.  "Mom, she's gonna be okay, right?  Emma?  You’re fine?"  
  
“Yeah, kid, I’ll be fine--” Emma starts to say, but Regina doesn’t really give her the time or space to get further than that.  
  
"What if you _had_ hit your head just a little harder, hm?  What if you'd landed just a little differently and you wouldn't have--"  
  
Emma struggles to sit upright and keep her eyes open, because, yeah. The barely contained panic at the foot of the bed has a really depressing context.  
  
"I didn't. None of that happened; I just slipped and fell, okay, and my head is killing me but I'll be fine. Maybe a little dumber than I was yesterday, but we both know you didn't marry me for my brains--"  
  
She shuts up abruptly when a strangled little sob escapes Regina. Henry looks horrified by the sound, and carefully says, "Mom?  Are you--"  
  
"Kid, give us a minute," Emma says, raising her eyebrows at him until he slips out of Regina's lessened hold and slowly heads back to the waiting room.  
  
Then, she looks at her wife and pats the side of the bed. "Seriously, just come here."  
  
"Don't _patronize_ me," Regina bites out at her, and it's probably ridiculous, but somehow in getting yelled at, she feels loved in a way she's not sure she has, before. "I'm right to be upset with you. You're reckless and ridiculously unprepared for most of the things you throw yourself into--"  
  
"And I could have died."  
  
" _Yes_ , Emma, _you could have died._ "  
  
Emma takes a deep breath, and then looks directly at her wife.  "But worse than that, I could've ended up a vegetable. And you would've had to deal with that, emergency contact or not."  
  
Regina looks like she's contemplating turning Emma into a vegetable with her own bare hands for a few seconds, before hissing, "How _dare_ you make light of that.  How dare you--"  
  
"I'm not, I swear," Emma says, fighting against the overwhelming desire to close her eyes. "I just don't think it ever really hit me that... that's what we signed off on. Or what it would take for you to agree to take on that responsibility a second time."  
  
She can't keep her eyes open any longer, and as they slip shut, she hears Regina finally move, and then feels a sharp pinch in her forearm.  
  
Her eyes jolt open again and Regina's right there, now, studying her face and the bandage on her skull.  
  
"You have to stay awake," she stresses, awkwardly leaning against the side of the bed.  
  
"I know," Emma says, reaching for Regina's hand and lacing their fingers together. "Squeeze when I start to go. And tell them that you're married to me, so they call you if I ever sprain an ankle."  
  
Regina's mouth sets, and then she adds, "For someone as supposedly empathic as your best friend, she could use a lesson in the appropriate delivery of this kind of news."  
  
"Just said I was in the hospital after an accident, huh."  
  
The sag in Regina's face says enough, and Emma squeezes down again.  
  
"I wouldn't do that to you."  
  
"What, _die_?  I admire the optimism, dear, but you're going to--"  
  
"No. I mean, ... Daniel broke in horses, right?"  At Regina's nod, Emma shifts in the bed and licks her lips.  "I know I can keel over dead whenever, but I'll stay away from anything risky like that, from now on."  
  
"You're in _law enforcement_ , Deputy Swan; short of becoming an art teacher--"  
  
"I'm saying this all wrong," Emma sighs. "What I mean is, I won't take risks. I used to--this isn't even close to my first concussion, but... I have people now. I know that. So I don't take unnecessary risks anymore, _unless_ it's to protect you or the kid."  
  
Regina says nothing for a long moment, but then reaches out and cups Emma's cheek.  "I trust Miss Blanchard will take care of you once you are released."  
  
Emma glances at the waiting room again, and sees Henry looking back at her almost anxiously, as if she's a savior without a sword and the Evil Queen is way too close for comfort.  
  
"She could," Emma says, covering Regina's hand on her cheek with her own.  "But...  this seems like as good a time to let the town know that you and I are definitely not finished, so--"  
  
Regina looks like she can breathe again, just like that, and then slides her hand further around, fingers feeling around the edge of a wad of cotton and tape.  "If you're sure," she then says, voice even in a way that makes Emma smile.  
  
"I'm a pretty fucking awful patient, so maybe we'll consider this part of you making your bad decisions up to me."  
  
Regina sort of smiles as well, but then sobers again.  "Is Henry watching?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"Good.  This will give him something to analyze to death for the next few days," Regina says, before leaning forward and pressing a gentle kiss right at the edge of the bandage.  
  
Emma almost laughs, but with Regina as close as she is, managing to look both amused and anxious at the same time, laughter is suddenly the last thing on her mind.  
  
"C'mere," she says, softly this time, but before she can get any closer to kissing Regina the way she really, really wants to, a loud, " _Him_?" sounds from the waiting area.

It’s immediately followed by a loud crack and a high-pitched, "David!"  
  
Regina freezes and then slowly turns around, and as Emma peers around her, she does end up laughing, more in shock than anything else.    
  
Two grown men are grappling around on the floor as Henry looks on in fascination and Mary Margaret looks on in horror.  
  
"You could do _so_ much worse than me," she tells Regina, who after a second looks back at her in disbelief, before pushing off the bed to go and break up Storybrooke's first hospital-based fist-fight.


	17. Chapter 17

Being a guest in a house she used to live in is a little weird, to say the least.    
  
The first day goes by in kind of a blur of soup and painkillers, with Henry perched on the other end of the couch from her and her legs--with permission--up on the coffee table.  A slew of increasingly more psychedelic-seeming cartoons flashes by in front of her and she just has to stop herself from drifting off, until Regina declares her ready to go to bed.  
  
That’s when things really do get uncomfortable, because on autopilot, she heads to the master bedroom; it’s only when she sees the bed (and, okay, Regina’s been smart enough to not have _those_ sheets on) that she remembers that, no, this isn’t where she sleeps now.  
  
She bumps into Regina on the way to the guest room, and they avoid looking at each other; still, a few minutes later, Regina drops off some towels for her and quietly says that one of her replacement toothbrushes is still in the cabinet under the sink.  
  
Falling asleep is almost a relief after that, and the discomfort of being in this rarely-used room, decorated more to _Cora’s_ tastes than either hers or Regina’s, fades into the background until the next morning.  
  
…  
  
By the time Tuesday rolls around, a kind of routine has been established, and it’s shockingly different from the one they used to live by when she _actually_ lived with Regina and the kid.  
  
Because there’s still some lingering fogginess at the back of her head, Graham’s given her the week off (with a basket full of cold cuts that he dropped off awkwardly, telling her to get well) and so she’s got easy mornings of waking up and eating breakfast with Henry.  Regina’s usually gone already by the time she wakes up, and she spends most of the morning wandering around the house, trying not to be invasive.  
  
Little changes become apparent.  The throw that she used to cover herself with during the depth of winter has been carefully folded up but left on a footstool in the living room, where it used to be stowed away in the linen cabinet until Emma got chilly enough to go and get it.  The split in the bookcase is still there, with her shelf full of CDs and Regina’s full of classics from the gothic tradition; except the CDs there, now, aren’t the ones that Emma kept there.  
  
She’s left holes, obvious ones, and Regina has set about filling them the best she can; but it’s not really the same.  
  
Over lunch, she calls Mary Margaret--who has sounded incredibly out of sorts for days now, but doesn’t dare visit Emma at Regina’s house, not without Regina’s permission--and tries to find out what the aftermath of the reception punch-out has been, but Mary Margaret refuses to talk about it.  
  
“You’ve been in the middle too much, and Kathryn Nolan is a really, _really_ nice person, from everything I’ve been told, and this just needs to stop,” is what she finally says on Tuesday afternoon, sounding quiet and broken, but also determined in a way that actually really suits her.  
  
“So--you and _Alan_ ,” Emma says.  
  
“If he can get past the fact that he lost a tooth because some guy who liked me doesn’t know how to keep his temper in check,” Mary Margaret sighs.  “We had plans--for Thanksgiving, I mean, he was coming to the diner, but...”  
  
The holiday is something she’s mostly forgotten about, in the blur of the last few days, but she wanders over to the kitchen on her socks and stares at the fridge calendar for a few seconds.  Careful red lines have been drawn through all the events that would’ve been relevant for _her_ , but they’re thin enough where they can still be seen; doctor’s appointments, the cable bill’s payment...  
  
And Thanksgiving, noted in Regina’s neat smallcaps print, with a later-added blood-red question mark behind it.  
  
When she opens the fridge, there’s not a turkey in sight, and she closes the door again.  
  
“This thing at Granny’s,” she says, tentatively.  “Do we need to RSVP or something?”  
  
“ _We_?” Mary Margaret asks, equally cautious.  “Are you thinking about...”  
  
“I don’t want to ruin whatever that tradition is by showing up with the Mayor, but … she’s been taking care of me for a few days now and it’s done a lot to make Henry seem a little more settled.  He’s still a little skittish around her but actually told her to have a good day at work today--I think.  I might’ve dreamed that, I don’t know,” Emma says, pressing her fingertips against the calendar.  
  
“I think we can all adjust, if the Mayor graces us with her presence,” Mary Margaret says.  
  
Emma smiles faintly.  “Maybe if I pitch it to her as an impromptu campaign event, she’ll even _go_ for it.”  
  
“You don’t want to just … do it with the three of you, there?” Mary Margaret ventures.  
  
Emma turns and heads towards the pantry, where boxes of her favorite cereal still line the walls, and picks one up and carries it back to the kitchen table, sitting down there with a sigh.  “I don’t know.  That kind of sounds like tempting fate, you know?  We’ve been okay, but we’ve also not been...”  
  
“Together.”  
  
“Yeah.  Not like that.  Doing the whole family holiday thing... I don’t know.  Maybe this way, there’ll be a little less pressure on the whole event.  If I can sell it to Regina, anyway.”  
  
Mary Margaret says nothing for a few seconds, and then says, “You know I’m hardly her biggest fan, but, Emma--last weekend--”  
  
Emma rubs at her forehead, wondering when her head is going to stop feeling tender.  “Yeah, I know.  She freaked out completely, and probably said a few things to you that she really should apologize for, but she’s never going to.  Sorry on her behalf, I guess.”  
  
“No, that’s not what I was going to say,” Mary Margaret says, before taking a deep breath.  “I just--she’s so formal, and distant, that I guess I always thought that something broke in her when Daniel died and there wasn’t anything that could fix it.  It’s why I’ve worried about you, all this time.  It’s so _hard_ to care for someone unavailable, and...”  
  
“Oh,” Emma says; her voice comes out really small, and she looks back at the calendar, wondering how many other people in town thought the same.  Poor little Emma Swan; destined to get crushed by someone who doesn’t know better.  God, for all she knows, it’s how _Regina_ thought of them for a very long time.  “Yeah, I guess I can see that.”  
  
“Emma, what I’m saying is that I’m _wrong_.  I just--didn’t understand.  I guess I’ve had silly ideas about what romance should be like; I would’ve liked to see my best friend with someone who doted on them openly, who seemed openly proud about being with her, but... she _really_ loves you, and I’m sorry that I haven’t been as supportive as I could have been.”  
  
Emma feels her eyes mist over and presses her fingers against her throat, forcing a slight lump down.  “Don’t say that.  I’m glad you’re in my corner and not hers, I guess.  I mean, she wouldn’t really want you there, but--maybe you can just be in _our_ corner now.  God knows we’ll need all the support we can get when the re-election starts.”  
  
“You really think Mr. Gold will--”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Emma says, popping the lid on her cereal box and lifting out the bag.  “There’s no love lost between these two, and if this also totally screws up _my_ life, that’s probably the kind of thing they’d call an unfortunate externality, or something.”  
  
“Well, if it helps, I’m happy to tell anyone who asks that you two obviously belong together and Mr. Gold’s merely launching a desperate slander campaign because he _knows_ he can’t persuade anyone he’ll be a better mayor than Regina without resorting to dirt,” Mary Margaret tells her.  
  
Emma smiles faintly.  “Thanks.  And--sorry about giving you crap about Alan.  It’s just that I actually _like_ David, and...”  
  
“I know,” Mary Margaret says, before clearing her throat and then saying, “All right, well, if you’re joining us, you have to participate in the potluck somehow, so can you maybe ask Regina if she’s happy to make some sort of dessert for everyone attending?  Normally, about thirty people show up--so...”  
  
…  
  
Even though she’s still exhausted, she’s getting a little sick of being cooped up in a house that she can’t really _do_ anything in, and there are only so many times a person can reasonably take a bath or a nap in a twenty-four hour period.  When she wanders by the fridge a second time, late in the afternoon, she realizes that Henry has therapy with Archie and, after a second of thinking about it, tugs on her last set of clean clothes--Regina had swept into Mary Margaret’s and packed an overnight bag for her, on Saturday--and then heads out for a brisk walk towards the town center.  
  
Snow has settled deep onto the streets, now; they’re only a few weeks away from Christmas and some of Regina’s neighbors are long past the point of trying to decide if it’s time to decorate.  For a few years now, Regina’s pet project has been introducing an ordinance that will forbid external decorations until Thanksgiving has passed, but the rest of the city council is a little more...  
  
 _Relentlessly cheerful_ , she thinks, eyeing a reindeer with flashing eyes and a blinking set of lights wrapped around its body, six houses down from their place.  
  
Regina’s own concession will eventually be a tasteful wreath on the door and a collection of expensive, seemingly handmade stockings dangling from the mantel in the living room, as well as a tree in the foyer; it’s the kind of thing that she’d expect to see in design magazines, but it’s never really felt all that homey.  Henry hasn’t known better, though, and in any event, when he still believed in Santa, Regina deliberately put his presents next to the fireplace--”He’s not as gullible as his peers, Miss Swan, and if those presents appear anywhere _other_ than by Santa Claus’s supposed entry route, he’ll know this is nothing more than a _myth_ ”--so the tree’s always just been... there.  
  
Shuffling forward in the snow and tugging her scarf up until it’s covering her face, Emma fights the urge to sigh, because--hell, at least there _is_ a tree, and Henry’s Christmas has never been as lonely or empty as that holiday can be.  
  
…  
  
“Hi Emma!” Henry shouts at her, barreling towards her and then crashing to a halt before he can make an impact; he then squints up at her and says, “Should you be walking around?  Mom said--”  
  
“Your mom worries too much.  I’m fine,” she promises him, and then jabs her thumb out towards the town hall.  “I thought we could grab a shake before you go to therapy.  That okay?”  
  
She gets a gap-toothed grin in response and Henry shrugs his backpack further onto his shoulders, before launching into a story about how some girl named Ava stole one of his pencils but he didn’t rat her out with his teacher, and for a few minutes, at least, she gets to pretend that the kid is completely and utterly fine.  
  
…  
  
That illusion pretty much dies when they head up to stairs to Archie’s office, and Henry very abruptly falls silent.  
  
“What is it?” she asks him, because after so many  years of watching his moods run rampant over his expressions, she can read him even if he _doesn’t_ say what he’s thinking.  
  
“Do you think I’m crazy?” he asks, steps faltering on the way up.  He doesn’t really manage to look at her, though, just dips his chin and then drags his foot up to the next step.    
  
“What?  No, of course not.”  
  
“Because Nicholas says that only crazy people talk to therapists; that Dr. Hopper isn’t a real doctor but he’s the kind of doctor you go to when there’s something wrong with your brain.”  He pauses, and then adds, “Not like what’s wrong with _your_ brain.  When there’s something wrong with it and you didn’t hit it anywhere.”  
  
She puts a hand on his shoulder, nudging him up the rest of the flight, but then stops him at the top and firmly says, “ _Nobody_ thinks you’re crazy.”  
  
“But you do think I’m wrong.  About Mom being bad, and about you being the only person who can make her better,” he asks, in a smaller voice than he’s put the question to her before.  Like, maybe, she’s finally getting him to doubt himself, and not just to stay silent about all the things running amok in his mind.    
  
Emma studies his face for a few moments, and then lowers her eyes and says, “It’s just not that simple.”  
  
“Because you’ve also done bad things,” Henry recites at her, and she smiles faintly.  
  
“No, not just because of that, but--when people do bad things, it’s not because they’re bad _people_.  It’s usually because they’re hurting, and … I can’t make everything that’s hurt your mom go away, kid.  I think that if she and I work at it, we can have a pretty good thing together--you know, a good relationship, but that doesn’t change that...”  
  
He stares at her uncomprehendingly, and she glances at her watch and then gets back on the stairs, pointing at the top one.  
  
“Come sit with me for a second.”  
  
He does what she asks, warily, and clasps his hands together between his knees, still looking at her like she’s about to change his world view forever.  Hell, maybe she is--but he hasn’t believed in Santa for years now, to the point where Mary Margaret had to ask Regina to put a gag order on him so he wouldn’t ruin Christmas for the other kids, and he’s resilient.  He’s adapted to many things, so maybe he can also adapt to this.  
  
“I’ve told you, what it was liking growing up, for me,” she starts.  
  
The frown on his forehead deepens.  “Yeah.  It sucked.”  
  
“Yeah, it did,” she says, laughing softly and then putting her hands behind her, until she’s able to stretch out her legs a little without falling down the stairs.  “And I told you that I envy you, because you don’t know any better than having a good family, right?  You don’t have to worry about... if you’re going to be able to sleep at night, if your mom is still going to be there tomorrow, if she’ll still _love_ you...”  
  
A disturbed look passes over his face.  “She can’t stop loving me, she’s my _mom._ ”  
  
“She _won’t_ stop loving you, because she’s a _good_ mom,” Emma says, as deliberately as she can.   
  
He hesitates and then carefully asks, “So because--you’re just Emma, can _you_ stop loving me?”  
  
She looks at him sharply and then gently punches him in the arm.  “Don’t be stupid; I’m never going to stop loving you either.”  
  
“Or leave, right?  You promised you wouldn’t leave.”  
  
It hurts, that he still needs this confirmed, but she figures she has it coming.  “No, I’m not leaving.”  
  
It takes him another few seconds, and then he looks worried.  “Emma, why are you telling me this again?”  
  
A sort of broken laugh crackles in her throat, at the idea that this is just a story about an unhappy childhood that he doesn’t want to hear again, but it’s hardly his _fault_ that he doesn’t know better.  “Because growing up wasn’t just rough for _me_.”  
  
“Oh,” Henry says, before looking down at his own lap, and past it, at his tightly doubled-knotted boots and the flakes of snow dripping off them.    
  
“Yeah.  Your grandma’s not a very nice person,” Emma says, when it’s clear that he can take a little more.  “And so--your mom didn’t have the good kind of family either, growing up, but she’s done everything possible to make your life better than that.  So--maybe she’s pretty bad about showing us that she cares, because she just likes to yell at us about being messy and being home on time, but she’s not a bad _person_ , Henry.”  
  
He stays quiet for a few moments, and then says, “You know in the book, they say that... the stable boy was really good.  Good like Snow White, I mean.”  
  
“I’m sure he was.”  
  
“And that when he died, something changed,” Henry ventures, before cautiously looking at her again.  “I think the book says something like... the light went out.  Or all of the light.  I don’t really remember.”  
  
“Not your favorite story, huh?”  Emma asks.  
  
He has the grace to look a little embarrassed when he says, “It’s just about feelings.  The other ones at least have swordfighting in them.”  
  
It’s enough to make her laugh a little, and she reaches around him to grasp his shoulder and pull him in a little closer.  “Right, so you don’t actually want to believe _all_ of it is true; just the cool parts, where Miss Blanchard is actually your grandmother and your mom’s evil because she’s pretty strict and sometimes she and I fight about things.”  
  
The kid bristles a little, but then says, “You fight about things a _lot_.  And it’s always stupid things.  I don’t think Snow White gets really angry when Prince Charming comes home late for dinner or um, makes a mess in the kitchen.”  
  
“No, she probably doesn’t,” Emma concedes, and then squeezes his shoulder again.  “But that’s because she’s a character in a _book,_ Henry.  It’s not much of a happily-ever-after if the epilogue is all about how Charming leaves his dirty socks all over the house and Snow tells him not to be such a lazy you-know-what.”  
  
She can feel him giggle, more than hear it, and then he sighs softly and says, “She cried a lot, you know.”  
  
“Who did?  Your mom?”  
  
“Uh huh.  When you first left.  And it made me really mad because … she _made_ you leave, so she shouldn’t be crying about it, but I guess...”    
  
Whatever the thought is, it’s just out of reach for him, but she presses a kiss to the top of his head anyway and then looks over her shoulder.  “It’s time for you to go in.”  
  
“Will you pick me up when I’m done?”  
  
“I’ll be here,” she says, as he pushes back up to his feet and grips the straps on his backpack tightly.  “I promise.”  
  
…  
  
It’s like another small thing has changed, because unlike the mostly silent dinners they’ve been having so far, with Regina lacking the energy to force polite conversation four nights in a row and Emma just thinking about the nagging late-night headaches that aren’t really going anywhere, Henry starts talking on his own.  It’s tentative, and not fully animated and aware of how captive his audience is purely on the basis of how much they care about him, but he re-tells the story about Ava stealing his pen and Regina doesn’t move her fork off the plate for a whole five minutes.  
  
She’s soaking it in, and Emma feels a pang of regret at the idea that for months now, Henry’s _voice_ has been lacking from her life.  Whatever else Regina has done, it almost cost her her _son_ , and that will never be a fair price to pay for her transgressions.  
  
The lightest of tremors in Regina's cheek is all that really gives away just how much she needed this, but Emma catches it and reaches for her under the table, squeezing her knee before going back to her own dinner.  
  
It’s not good enough, but it’s _getting_ there, and when Regina briefly glances at her, she feels pretty goddamned white-knightly even though this really is all on their kid.  
  
…  
  
After Henry goes to bed, it’s almost a given that the TV will be switched to something action-oriented, or _adult_ , or whatever they want to call it.  Regina lingers on a _Law and Order: SVU_ rerun, but Emma shakes her head and says, “Not really feeling sexual crime right now.”  
  
“Are you all right?” Regina asks, sounding so concerned that Emma almost laughs; like her interest in Mariska Hargitay is the _real_ determinant of her well-being, and the all-clear she’s pretty sure she’ll get at the hospital tomorrow is just a side note.  
  
“Fine, just a headache that won't quit.  I think I’d prefer to have it off--but, I mean, it’s your house so if there’s something you really want to see--” she says, before shutting up and then rolling her eyes.  “You know what I mean.”  
  
Regina smiles faintly and then shuts the TV off, before stretching quietly and then saying, “I have some campaign materials to vet.  Some of that will impact on you, so the sooner I read through them the better.”  
  
“I still can’t believe you’re letting Sidney run your campaign,” Emma says, rubbing at her temples absently.  “I mean, what are his credentials, again?”  
  
“Other than that he’s absolutely blind to my less desirable traits and therefore will sell me like I can’t in good conscience sell myself?” Regina asks.  
  
Emma snorts.  “Yeah, aside from _that_.”  
  
“He did a fine job four years ago, Emma.  I’m sure he will again now.”  
  
Emma nods, and then lets her cheek sink against the back of the couch.  “Okay, well, anything I need to know, I’m right here.”  
  
“If you want to just go to bed--”  
  
“It’s _nine_.  If I’m going back to work tomorrow I should at least be able to stay up until the evening news has come and gone.”  
  
Regina says nothing, but then gets up and says, “I’ll be right back--do you need anything?  Another pill, or--”  
  
“No, I’m good,” Emma says, closing her eyes.  “They’re not really doing anything for me, and according to the internet, I’ll probably just have headaches coming and going for the next few months.  Might as well get used to it.”  
  
“Ah, of course.  Well, if the _internet_ says so,” Regina sort of mutters, and Emma smiles despite herself.  
  
The room is silent, crackling of the kindling in the fireplace notwithstanding, to the point where she almost nods off--but every time she thinks she’s about to drift completely, another pulse by her left temple, just a few inches forward of where her skull was stitched back together, has her waking up again.  It’s miserable, and she grunts a little before sitting up more and just staring at the fireplace.  
  
When Regina walks back in, with a leather-bound folder of some kind, she directs another concerned look at Emma, who fights the urge to sigh.  
  
“I’m fine.  Honest.  I guess this is what I get for letting a turkey scare the crap out of me.”  
  
“You know, you’d be fine to just say that you slipped and fell; it happens to the best of us,” Regina tells her, sitting back down after putting the folder on the coffee table.  Absently, Emma notes that this remains her favorite part of the day; where Regina finally remembers that unwinding a little won’t kill her, and pads around the house on bare feet, with make-up mostly faded and softened somehow, and her hair displaced from too many fingers running through it over the course of a day.  
  
She looks so _real_ in these vague twilight hours, and almost despite herself, Emma just finds that she wants to stare a little.  It helps that looking at Regina doesn’t make her head pound the way the TV does, in the long run, and that Regina is letting her look without budging.  
  
At least, until she says, “If the painkillers aren’t helping, perhaps a massage will.”  
  
“A massage?” Emma asks, blinking a few times.  “Like a head rub?”  
  
“Yes,” Regina says, before smiling in a way that’s almost self-deprecating.  “While I didn’t consult the _internet,_ I’ve heard that they help with migraines.  Not to mention that I’m due to inspect your stitches for cleanliness--”  
  
Emma hesitates for a second, but then just says, “Okay, um.  Why not?”  
  
Regina shifts, her skirt riding up a little, and then says, “You’ll have to let me know if it hurts.  I’m hardly an expert.”  
  
“On scalp massaging?” Emma asks, before sitting upright and then staring at Regina’s lap.  “Um, where do you want me?”  
  
Regina just stares at her, but then smooths out the wrinkles in her skirt again, and Emma feels her eyebrows climb.  
  
“Right.  Someplace you can reach my head,” she then says, under her breath, before turning around and lowering her upper body to the sofa, until her neck meets--that’s definitely thigh, and then she’s just staring up at Regina’s face.    
  
“Hi,” she mumbles.  
  
The low ceiling lights and the light from the fireplace are doing nothing to make Regina look any less attractive, but any thoughts Emma might have about this being nothing short of a deliberate ruse to get her in a compromising position disappear when Regina says, “Tilt your head so I can see your wound, please”, with the kind of quiet concern normally directed at Henry when he has a scrape or a cut that needs bandaging.  
  
She does, shifting until she’s looking at the buttons on Regina’s shirt, and then tenses when fingertips start feeling around the area; that’ll be tender for a while yet, because head wounds bleed like crazy and everything on her skull is super-connected to nerves, there (according to the internet, anyway), but after a few gentle prods, it starts to feel kind of nice.  
  
“Am I going to be deformed?” she asks, when it’s clear that Regina is actually just playing doctor, and not planning on... well, playing _doctor_.  
  
It earns her a soft chuckle, and then those fingertips skitter down to her temple, pressing down gently.  “How’s that?”  
  
“Good.  Do both sides,” Emma says, shifting onto her back again and looking up for another second, but all she’s really seeing is _hands_ , so she lets her eyes drift shut and just focuses on the surprisingly nice light prickling sensations that scatter out from where Regina is rubbing.  
  
“Do both sides, _please_ ,” she hears, and it makes her smile until she actually just sighs and tries to relax into the movement of Regina’s hands altogether.  
  
For a short while, she really doesn’t want to talk at all, but half-asleep she’s always been at her most forward and her most honest--well, aside from _drunk_ , but that’s the wrong kind of honesty and forwardness--and so when Regina’s hands move towards the top of her head again, she lets her eyes blink open and looks up silently.  
  
“Still good?” Regina asks, catching her eye.  
  
“Mmhm.”  She looks back and then blurts out, “Do you want to join me for Thanksgiving at the diner?”  
  
“Eugenia Lucas’s potluck for strays, you mean?”  
  
There’s a subtle wariness to Regina’s voice as she asks, and Emma rolls her eyes a little.  “The town won’t try to lynch you, you know.”  
  
“I’d like to see them try,” Regina says, dryly, fingers pressing down with a little more force, her fingers spidering out.  “What brings on this invitation?”  
  
Emma mulls the words around her head for a few seconds, and then says, “Something Mary Margaret said--and _don’t_ say no just because she’s the one who made me think about this.”  
  
Regina sort of huffs, but then says, “All right.  What did she say?”  
  
“She just got me thinking about how the town views you, and... they don’t see you the way I do,” Emma says, suppressing the urge to shiver when Regina chances upon a particularly good spot.    
  
There’s the slightest of pauses in Regina’s movements, but then she continues, and lightly asks, “And how is that?”  
  
“As... you know, a _person_.”  She closes her eyes again and then adds, “They just get the mayor, not... _Regina_.”  
  
“As far as I’m concerned, my job doesn’t require me to be anyone’s _friend_ , Emma.”  
  
“I get that, but--with what Gold is about to do to you, to your image, it can’t hurt to remind people that there’s more to you than just this ruthless rubber-stamping machine.”  Emma hesitates, and then says, “They knew that, _once_.  When you had Daniel.  And I know you’re not the same person you were then, of course you’re not, but...”  
  
“I’m still mostly human,” Regina says, quietly.  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
The room falls silent again, and Emma can actually feel herself slipping away now; expert or not, Regina pretty much has her number, and it takes Emma a little bit of effort to not keep shifting in closer to her hands.  
  
“It would be good for Henry, to be among people on the holiday,” Regina finally says, quietly.    
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, after barely a pause.  She blearily opens one eye again, catching the way Regina’s face sort of freezes, for barely a second.  “You said all I had to do was ask.”  
  
Regina exhales slowly and then says, “Keep either Miss Blanchard or the carving knives away from me, please.”  
  
Emma chuckles softly.  “Give her a break.  She’s had a pretty rough week.”  
  
“She should have discouraged David long before now--”  
  
“Regina,” Emma cuts her off, and then covers one of the hands now just lightly toying with her hair.  “C’mon.  It’s none of our business, and we’re hardly in a position to be judging other people for what _they’re_ doing to screw up their relationships.”  
  
A small noise is the only response she gets, and she resettles as the sweeping motions of Regina’s fingers pick back up.  
  
“What do they need me to bring?” Regina then asks.  
  
“Dessert,” Emma says, before surrendering to an utterly relaxed smile.  “I figure you can show Mary Margaret what a real apple pie tastes like.”  
  
…  
  
When she wakes up, it’s dark, and the pillow she’s on is firmer than it should be; it also smells faintly like Regina, which means--  
  
 _Oh_.  
  
There’s something so brutally familiar about waking up surrounded by that scent.  Even if they’ve never been particularly _cuddly_ in their sleeping habits, it still makes her feel like she’s finally home again, however complicated a feeling that is.  Emma lets herself revel for a few silent minutes, before gathering up the guts it takes to give that comfort up again.  
  
Then, she shifts, dislodging a hand still twisted into her hair, and then looks over her shoulder at Regina, stiffly asleep in the corner of the couch.  The crick in Regina’s neck is obvious even in the dark, and after a second, Emma gently nudges against her shoulder.  “Hey...”  
  
Regina’s eyes flutter open and she glances around with sharp movements before she looks back at Emma.  “You fell asleep; I didn’t want to disturb you, given that Dr. Whale prioritized your rest.”  
  
“Yeah, well, we both need sleep--you can’t take campaign photos looking like you’ve been out on a three day bender.”  
  
Regina yawns, running her hands through her hair, and then says, “I hear Paintshop fixes that.”  
  
“Photoshop,” Emma corrects, before lowering her feet to the freezing-cold floor and getting up with a few creaks in her bones.  “And it can only do so much.”  
  
Regina follows suit, rolling her neck briefly.  “How’s your head?”  
  
“Better,” Emma says, after a moment, before nodding at Regina.  “I figure I owe you one for the angle your neck was at.”  
  
Regina looks like she wants to respond, but then doesn’t; just says, “I guess we better head to bed, then.”  
  
Emma nods and heads towards the stairs, skipping the one that creaks loudly enough to wake even Henry up, and then runs a hand through her hair and yawns again when she’s at the top.  Regina looks as rumpled as she ever does, but covers her mouth to hide a small yawn and then asks, “Do you need your pills?”  
  
“No,” Emma says, and looks towards the main bedroom, at the end of the hallway; a shard of light cracks through the bottom of the door, and somehow it feels foreboding--like a reminder of the bad spell that they’re only just starting to climb out of.  “I don’t.  But--”  
  
Regina watches her silently, and ultimately Emma just reaches for her hand and tugs her towards the guest bedroom.  
  
“I’m not suggesting anything,” Emma says, once they’re inside, before reaching for the buttons on her jeans.  “Just sleep.  Okay?”  
  
Regina’s hand moves to the bottom-most button on her blouse and snaps it open without saying anything; it’s the most guileless stripping down that Emma has ever seen from her, slow but without any measure of seduction, and it feels so incredibly _right_ to be here, like this, that she forgets to breathe for a few moments.  
  
Then, Regina slips out of her blouse and out of her skirt, and folds them both of up neatly, placing them onto the dresser, before looking at Emma cautiously again.  
  
“Here--” Emma says, reaching into the top drawer of the dresser for an oversized Iron Maiden t-shirt she once stole off an ex-boyfriend of sorts; it’s like a long dress on Regina, and takes away any tension that might come from them being in the same bed.   
  
When they settle into the bed, it’s a little stiff and unfamiliar, but then Regina rolls onto her side and looks at her with dark, inscrutable eyes.  
  
“What?” Emma asks, covers tucked under her chin.  
  
Regina doesn’t respond directly; just looks for a few more moments, and then softly says, “Get some rest.”  
  
“You too,” she says, smothering another yawn, and then closes her eyes again, listening to the even pattern of Regina’s breathing, mere inches away from her.


	18. Chapter 18

“I thought I told you to dress _down_ ,” Emma says, when the downstairs door opens and Regina is standing there, Henry holding one pie tin and another one balanced on her own hand.    
  
“We did,” Regina says, archly.  
  
Emma can see the ends of a white cashmere sweater--it’s one of those disgracefully soft knit things that Regina owns and only wears around the house, so she thinks of them as _treat sweaters,_ but that hardly makes them casual--and high-waisted black pants and, of course, stiletto heels that bring them eye to eye with each other.  Hair’s perfect, make-up’s impeccable, and … Henry’s wearing a tie.  
  
“He’s wearing a _tie_ ,” Emma points out, though she’s sure Regina knows, because the kid might’ve been born from a fashion lunatic but he wasn’t _raised_ by one, and he likes t-shirts the way normal people do.  “In what world is wearing a _tie_ dressing down?”  
  
“It’s patterned,” Regina says, almost daring her to continue.  
  
After a second, Emma just smiles and rolls her eyes and says, “Okay, well--I guess they’ll just have to count us as a group.”  
  
“Oh, is that why you look like you just pulled that from the bottom of your closet?  To lower our collective appearances?” Regina asks, arching an eyebrow and scanning her up and down.  
  
“I think you look nice, Emma,” Henry says, glaring up at Regina for a second and then shivering.  “Can we _go_ now, please?  It’s super cold and I’m hungry.”  
  
“Yeah, let’s.  Pretty sure they’re ready for us,” Emma says, pulling the door shut behind her.  
  
Mary Margaret left hours ago to help Granny cook, and since then, she’s just been wandering around the house, looking for something to _do_.  Unemployment doesn’t suit her; bed rest is even worse, because all of that idle time just reminds her of her short stint in juvie.  It was enough to get her to clean up her act a little, but memories of it still drive her crazy, and so she feels like she’s been uncaged, walking down the street and turning onto Main with two people who are dressed like they’re going to the opera.  
  
“Do you think we’re going to eat one of the turkeys that we killed?” Henry asks, as they circumvent small hills of snow the best they can.  This isn’t the kind of weather for dress shoes, and Emma doesn’t bother looking at Regina’s face; she knows it’s prune-esque.  
  
It’s not the ideal start to what is bound to be a very trying evening of her trying to reconcile her friends and her family, but there also isn’t much she can do about it and so she shrugs.  “Don’t know.  I mean, do you really think those birds would’ve fed thirty people?”  
  
“The tradition is to hunt; what we eat is significantly more fattened, I assure you,” Regina explains.  “Graham takes those other birds and--”  
  
“And what?” Henry asks, a little warily.  
  
Judging by the sudden stillness of Regina’s face, the answer is something ridiculous like _sets them on fire,_ and so Emma just taps him on the shoulder and says, “Did you help make the pies?”  
  
“Uh huh.  I cored the apples; then Mom peeled them and then we made the batter together.  Or is it pastry?”  
  
Regina’s sour face evaporates at even this minor reminder from Henry that they spent the afternoon together _doing_ something without him protesting overly much, and Emma will take the truth--which is that upon finding out that Regina was making _apple pie,_ he’d had a ten minute long freakout and had then vowed to make sure she didn’t poison them--to the grave.  
  
The lie’s worth it, when the lines in Regina’s face disappear almost instantly and instead there’s a sort of wondrous half-smile threatening to burst out, as Henry continues explaining the cooking process like Emma has _any_ idea what airing or not airing the pastry is.  
  
She’s not really paying attention, anyway, because as the kid talks Regina looks over at her and it’s one of those unexpected moments of feeling their mutual attraction almost like a physical thread, snapping taut between them.  That’s the kind of romantic crap she used to think only existed in stories, and okay, maybe a lot of it is just plain-up sexual tension, but it’s been a long time since she’s sensed it so acutely and without any unpleasant reminders that she doesn’t immediately look away.  
  
Sometimes, she forgets how pretty her wife is; but then she quickly remembers that there aren’t many people that Regina relaxes around enough to actually _be_ beautiful.  
  
It’s pretty much just her and Henry, and …   
  
Well, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, she’s going to appreciate it a little more tonight than she’s let herself, lately.  
  
…  
  
Any thought of spending an evening quietly flirting with someone who absolutely cannot handle teasing leaves when there’s a familiar figure leaning against the wall next to the diner, drawing patterns in the melting snow with the rubber tip of his cane.  
  
“Is _he_ invited?” Henry asks, because no matter what horrors exist in his books and nightmares, he knows that Mr. Gold is a very real and very threatening thing.  Regina’s antipathy has been impressed on him from a very young age and their faces are very similar, actually, when they slow to a walk.  
  
“ _Happy_ Thanksgiving,” Mr. Gold declares, with a false exuberance, before bending forward a little and smiling at Henry.  “Especially to you--rumor _has_ it, boy, that this was your first time out on the hunt.  Did you like it?”  
  
A war between his manners and his desires plays out on Henry’s face really quickly, but then he says, “Yes, it was very nice, until Emma nearly died anyway.  Happy Thanksgiving.”  
  
“Henry, go inside,” Regina says, calmly and quietly.  When Henry looks up at her, she nods at his pie tin and stacks her own on top of it, adding, “Miss Blanchard will want to see those.  We’ll be right there.”  
  
“Okay,”  Henry says, for once not annoyed about being left out of important discussions--and Regina almost automatically closes the hole he leaves behind, stepping into Emma’s side like a physical buffer.  
  
It’s touching, though not at all necessary.    
  
“I take it you want something,” Emma says, after a second of Gold just scanning back and forth between them.  
  
“Do you _have_ something I want?” he counters.  
  
“She doesn’t,” Regina answers for her, and then sort of squares her posture.  “Nor will she, Mr. Gold.  I appreciate the backhanded attempt to find out what I’ve kept from you for _serious_ reasons all this time, but you’ll find that my wife isn’t so easily pitted against me.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma adds, as Gold’s face tightens.  “Deal’s off, which I guess is only fair, since I got absolutely nothing out of you anyway.”  
  
He says nothing, but his eyes darken and then he pushes away from the wall.  
  
“I see,” he then says, leaning heavily on his cane.  “You’re wanting to do this the hard way.”  
  
It only occurs to Emma that he’s not addressing her when Regina smiles sharply.  “Is there any _other_ way with you and me, Elias?”  
  
It earns her a nasty smile in kind, and then the cane is jabbed at Emma without warning.  “You’ve just made yourself a powerful enemy, dearie.  I hope it’s worth it; that you _know_ who you’re getting into bed with... so to speak.”  
  
“Uh--yeah, I do,” Emma says, but before she can add more, he’s already turning on his heels and slowly walking away from the diner, towards the shut-down town library.  They watch his progress for a few moments, and then Emma glances at Regina.  “You know, one of these days you’re going to have to tell me what the hell the deal with the nanny is.”  
  
“It doesn’t matter,” Regina says, absently.  
  
“What, so now we only talk about things that _matter_?  I know I’m not really an expert on how to do this right, Regina, but I kind of have the feeling that in a half-decent relationship, people just share crap with each other because they _can_.  Because they _want to_ , and because there’s _trust_.”  
  
Regina takes a deep breath and then looks at her carefully.  “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Emma.  It’s that I don’t want you to get in the middle of this.  You _or_ Henry.”  
  
“Are you in some sort of... I mean, are you like Graham?  Did you _do_ something to the nanny that--”  
  
Regina looks a little put off, but then firmly says, “ _No_.  Nothing like that.”  
  
Some part of Emma wants to doggedly persist, but before she can, the doorbell above the diner sounds and Henry is sticking his head out again.  “I got us seats next to Ruby and Granny--are you coming?”  
  
“Yeah, one sec,” Emma calls back, and waits for the door to close again before looking at Regina one more time.  
  
Regina hesitates, and then closes her eyes briefly and says, “The nanny--I helped her disappear.  The fewer people who know the details, the safer she is.  That’s all I’m willing to share.”  
  
“Hey,” Emma says, and then reaches for one of her hands, cupping it tight.  “That’s--more than enough.  I won’t push.”  
  
“Yes, I’m sure you won’t,” Regina says, dryly, but then takes a deep breath and sort of pinches her eyes closed.  “Speaking of your ability to push, however... I suppose we better address my mother soon.”  
  
“Oh, come on--as if this night isn’t going to be messed up enough, you had to bring up my nemesis?” Emma says, grimacing.  
  
Regina chuckles softly.  “Your _nemesis_.”  
  
“Yeah.  I keep thinking that any year now, she’s going to show up for Christmas and just stab me, before turning to you and saying, _I’ve met a really nice man for you, Regina, so time to stop playing lesbian and--_ ”  
  
It earns her legitimate laughter, then a quiet, “ _Stop_ ”, and finally a look that’s so laden with... _something_ that Emma’s teasing grin just fades away.  
  
“Thanks for doing this,” she says.  
  
“What, this dinner?” Regina asks, before shrugging as if it’s not at all a huge concession.  “I suppose one has to mingle with the plebs to curry their favor.”  
  
“Oh my _God_ ,” Emma says, shaking her head.  “Yeah, please go in with _that_ attitude, that’s going to go over--”  
  
“Who knows?  I might even be persuaded to say _hello_ to your roommate.”  
  
Emma smothers a smile and tries for a glare, but Regina looks too quietly amused for it to be working at all, and eventually she just sighs and says, “Persuaded _how_?”  
  
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” Regina says, before leaning in closer and dropping her voice.  “You’ve always been unexpectedly good at motivating me, dear.”  
  
Then, she just heads for the diner door, and leaves Emma standing on the pavement like an idiot with a slightly unhinged jaw.  
  
…  
  
The diner’s pretty packed.  
  
Purely mathematically, it was pretty clear all along that it could easily hold about thirty people, but seeing five nuns behind a sort of buffet-style table, handing out plates of mash and sweet potato and stuffing to a pretty sizable line of town folk is still pretty shocking.  
  
The conversation quiets down for just a few seconds as she and Regina make it inside, but eventually Granny just says, “Madam Mayor--how nice of you to join us”, in a way that sounds mostly like she means it, people start talking again.  
  
“Call me Regina, please,” Regina says, switching on that somewhat lethal beauty queen smile on command before unbuttoning her coat.  “I’m not working tonight.”  
  
“ _Regina_ ,” Granny concedes, before looking at both of them.  “Usual drinks?”  
  
“Yes please,” Emma says, as Regina pauses and then slowly says, “Actually--I have an odd request that you may not be able to cater to.  I did an exchange in London when I was in college and they drink something seasonal over there that--”  
  
“Pimm’s?”  Granny asks, with a butter-wouldn’t-melt type of smile.   “With some brandy and apple juice?”  
  
Regina inclines her head, and then also manages a cautious smile.  “Yes.”  
  
“You’re not the only one who’s traveled, Madam.... Regina,” Granny tells her, with a sly wink, and then looks at Emma.  “You want to give this a whirl as well, girl, or are you sticking to your discount whiskey?”  
  
Emma opens her mouth to protest, but then just gets gently nudged in her side.  
  
“If you like my cider, you’ll love this,” Regina tells her, softly and right next to her ear, and she sort of nods automatically.  
  
“Sure.  I’ll try... Poms with apple juice.”  
  
The door to the kitchen busts open right as Granny heads to the bar to start mixing their drinks, and out comes a flour-coated Mary Margaret, whose hair is sticking up in all angles but who nonetheless looks very happy to see them.  She sticks up a hand in greeting which Emma returns, and even Regina sort of lifts a hand about an inch; and then turns towards the line, scanning down it until she finds--  
  
“Oh, good, he came,” Emma says, tugging the zipper on  her jacket down and then watching as Ruby points out the various dishes to Henry, who seems to have a million and one questions, now that he’s had a culinary experience of his own.  
  
“Who did?” Regina asks.  
  
“Dr. Whale.   _Alan._ ”  
  
Regina squints down the line, past Leroy and Archie and Michael the Mechanic and his kids, and then makes a small noise.  “I didn’t realize that was serious enough for … shared festivities like this.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t think they’re here as an official couple; she just invited him to come but after the hospital I guess we weren’t entirely sure he’d be--interested.”  
  
Regina sort of snorts, and Emma bites down on the inside of her cheek to not start laughing as well.  
  
“ _Men_ ,” Regina then says, in sort of a grumble, before nodding at Dr. Hopper, who smiles at them both in greeting; he’s almost like an approving parent at how much progress they’re making.    
  
“Yeah.  Who needs ‘em?” Emma agrees, and then puts a hand at the small of Regina’s back.  “C’mon.  Let’s get some food.”  
  
Regina sort of wrinkles her nose, eyeing the buffet in the back of the room.  “I really hope this passes health and safety standards; who _knows_ what sorts of kitchens these dishes were even made in--”  
  
Emma just rolls her eyes, and then looks at the clock on the wall above the jukebox.  Really, they only have about another two hours to go before it won’t be rude to just bail on this get-together; surely they can manage that long?  
  
…  
  
She can’t really explain what compels her to keep watching what Alan and Mary Margaret are doing, because the guy’s never really done anything to suggest that he won’t treat her well, but still.  For once, it feels like _she’s_ the one supposed to be watching out for _Mary Margaret_ , and it’s hard not to take that responsibility seriously.  
  
“His eye is _really_ black,” Henry says, in a stage-whisper that nonetheless makes it across the table to Ruby, Granny and Archie, who all look at him in surprise.  “Do you think he can see from it?”  
  
“Don’t gossip, dear,” Regina says, in the kind of tone that makes Henry frown but then stab at his turkey again.  
  
Emma leans in closer and says, “From experience, I’d guess probably not; it’ll hurt too much to open it.”  
  
He turns to her and looks at her admiringly.  “You’ve been punched in the face that hard?”  
  
“Oh yeah,” Emma says, trying to inject some regret into the statement when Regina glares at her from over Henry’s head.  “I mean, it sucks--a _lot_ , and I didn’t always have medical insurance so I couldn’t go to the hospital to make sure that I didn’t actually have a fractured jaw bone--but I seem to still be mostly intact, so I guess I got lucky.”  
  
“ _Wow,_ ” Henry says, before looking across the table and declaring, “This was when my mom used to track down bad people, obviously, because she’d never punch a good person and good people also don’t punch back.”  
  
Regina’s fork hovers mid-air for a long moment and Ruby and Emma exchange a quick look, but Henry digs back into the stuffing and then, chewing and swallowing quickly, asks, “So what hurt more?  Hitting your head or a black eye?”  
  
“ _Henry_ ,” Regina says, and her voice is so unexpectedly tight that Emma wishes she could reach around the kid in some subtle way and just rub her shoulder for a second.  
  
It’s _just_ a word.  Henry didn’t mean anything by it, but it’s been Regina’s domain exclusively for _so_ long now that, yeah.  She can’t say she would’ve taken it lightly, in Regina’s place.  
  
“ _What_?” he asks.  “It’s just a conversation.”  
  
“I once broke both of my legs in a skiing accident,” Granny says, calmly, from across the table.  “They had to strap me to a board and get a pack of dogs to drag me back to the resort, and then a helicopter flew me out to a hospital.  I’ll tell you, neither a concussion nor a black eye can compare to that.”  
  
“When was _this_?” Ruby asks, head slowly craning towards her grandmother.  
  
Granny waves her off.  “Long before you were born, girl.  Long before I even met your grandfather.”  
  
“I once got my finger stuck in the car door,” Archie says, after a moment.  He pushes his glasses up and then adds, “It _really_ hurt.”  
  
Regina is the first to start laughing, delicately, and then covers her mouth with a napkin, and Emma mouths a silent _thank you_ to Archie, even as Henry declares that to be the lamest injury of all.  
  
When the laughter dies down, Henry shifts a little and then turns to look at Regina.  “What about you, Mom?”  
  
It scabs over whatever unintentional hurt he’s caused, and Regina actually entertains the question for a few moments, before pursing her lips and saying, “Well.  I’ve had a few riding accidents, but nothing truly comes close to the pain I experienced giving birth to _you_.”  
  
“Amen,” Granny says, grimly, and Emma chuckles at way that Archie sort of blushes and Ruby just grimaces with a shudder.  
  
Henry stays quiet for a few moments and then says, “Did it really hurt that bad?”  
  
Regina laughs shortly, and glances at Emma over the table, and then pensively holds her glass of the--shockingly good--English apple brandy stuff and says, “It’s ... hard to describe.”  
  
“Oh, come on,” Henry demands, and Ruby laughs again and then says, “Yeah, that’s not much of a story, Madam... Regina.”  
  
Regina smiles faintly and then says, “Okay.  It was--you were due to be born in the last week of August, but that week came and went without you so much as budging.  Not that you weren’t busy pressing on my kidneys constantly; you were such an active baby, always tossing around, like you couldn’t _wait_ to get a chance to explore the real world.”  
  
“Like an adventurer.  Or a detective,” Henry says, sounding proud of his baby-self.  Emma ruffles his hair before she can stop herself, but he ducks away from the movement and says, “What happens when a baby misses the deadline?”  
  
“Not much.  My feet got more swollen, my stomach got a little bigger, and the midwife--the lady who helped deliver you--called twice a day to ask if I was having contractions yet.”  
  
“Contractions?” Henry asks.  
  
“Like--those cramps you get when you eat too much, but they come from the baby.  It’s the baby’s way of saying, _I’m ready to come out now_ ,” Emma supplies.  
  
Regina nods.  “Anyway--so by the time the first week of September was done, I think we were all ready to meet you.  I went to the hospital and they did a few things to encourage you, and approximately twelve hours later--”  
  
“Twelve _hours_?” Henry and Ruby say, simultaneously and equally horrified.  
  
“You’ve always been stubborn,” Regina says, raising her eyebrows at her son.  “Even then.  I would say you get it from your father, but he was good at compromising in a way that I’ve never been, so I guess I only have myself to blame.”  
  
Henry’s eyes light up at even this brief reminder of the fact that once, he’d had a different parental configuration; then, he grimaces a little and says, “What were those twelve hours like?”  
  
“Not great,” Regina says, with a small laugh.  “But--I forgot about how long it took, and how much it hurt, almost as soon as I first saw you.  The doctors checked you, to make sure you had the normal amounts of toes and fingers, and to ensure that you were breathing normally and had a good strong heartbeat, and then--you started crying.  It was a horrible little noise, but it stopped the second they gave you to me.”  
  
Henry looks daunted by the entire episode--from the twelve hours to the fact that he came out screaming--and then tentatively asks, “Do you wish you’d had a less stubborn baby?  One that came on time?”  
  
Regina’s entire face does that softening thing it does, even with their audience, and then says, “ _Never_ ”, so plainly that Henry can’t really _not_ believe it.  
  
After a few moments, Ruby asks, “What about my birth?  What was that like?”  
  
“Dramatic and with a whole lot of fussing and screaming, so not much different from your teenage years,” Granny says, dryly.  
  
The entire table laughs, even Ruby, and Emma starts to think that maybe, her family’s been ready to mingle with the rest of the town all along, but she’s just never given it a fair chance to.  
  
…  
  
When, after second servings, she spills the last of her drink all over her shirt, it’s _mostly_ an accident, but she’s not going to pretend that it doesn’t present her with an opportunity she’s been thinking about ever since Regina switched into what can only be described as _campaign_ mode, asking both Granny and Archie about the conditions attached to their leases and what more the town could be doing to encourage the growth of small business.  
  
They don’t seem to mind that it’s not an overly festive discussion, and Ruby has produced a set of rubber bands out of nowhere and is showing Henry a bunch of tricks with them, which means that for about twenty minutes now, Emma’s been in that odd place of not really being part of the _kids’ table,_ but also having zero interest in whatever the adults are doing.  
  
Her apple brandy whatever, now cool, splashes over the rim of her glass and onto her stomach, and she mutters a curse as she’s plucking it away from her skin, before realizing that her gray shirt will stain horribly if she doesn’t deal with it _now_.  
  
“There will be a few spare shirts on the shelves above the dryers,” Ruby tells her, before sitting up a little more and asking, “I can show you if--”  
  
“I’ve got it,” Regina says, and so their chairs get pushed back in sync; in passing, Emma directs a questioning look at Mary Margaret, who blushes a little as Alan animatedly explains his most recent surgical feats to her across the table.  The nuns and Leroy and Tom the pharmacist are playing poker, with bottle caps as the betting material, and Emma smiles at just about everything she’s seeing--even the glare Michael directs at her, and damn, she _really_ needs to settle that bill--before they disappear behind the swinging door to the kitchen.  
  
“For someone so good with handguns, it will never not baffle me how uncoordinated you are when it comes to anything else,” Regina says, following her with clicking heels to the laundry room; when Emma turns and starts tugging on the sleeves of her shirt, her eyes are blazing with something that definitely isn’t annoyance.  
  
“Yeah,” Emma agrees, both hands tangled in shirt-sleeves as they stare at each other.  “Well, shooting crap is kind of a specific skill.”  
  
“Yes.  Unlike drinking, which most humans manage to do without assistance by the time they’re _four_ ,” Regina says, taking a step forward, until they’re definitely almost touching.  
  
“Explain something to me,” Emma asks, her voice unintentionally rough even on this simple question.  
  
Regina faintly raises her eyebrows, but otherwise just keeps looking at the way she’s trapping herself in her shirt, and--whatever.  They’ve known each other for so long now that it can’t even really surprise Regina that she might _actually_ need a hand.  
  
Emma bites her lip for a few seconds, and then decides that they’ve been gently coasting towards this moment for the better part of a week now; that it’s not an impulsive decision, and definitely not the warm alcohol swirling around her belly that’s making her want to do this.  She wanted to go here before she knocked herself out in the forest, and she wanted to go here when they shared a bed a few days ago without doing anything.  
  
She definitely just... wants to _,_ and so she swallows and meets Regina’s eyes unflinchingly.  
  
“How the hell do you make zoning permits and extended opening hours sound so fucking _sexy_?”   
  
“It’s a gift,” Regina says, barely, before pinning her up against the washing machine and kissing her the way they’ve always kissed; it’s hungry and a little bit desperate, like going for it with this kind of conviction will make the urge dissipate.    
  
It never does, of course; all the places where they’re touching, and especially where that soft white sweater is rubbing up against her sort-of-bare stomach, feel like they’re burning.   
  
It’s never been fireworks when they come together; no, it’s always more like a match tossed at a winding trail of gasoline, shooting up in flames and then ultimately reaching an end destination and  just fucking _exploding_.  
  
This, she knows, is another side of Regina that only she gets to see, and it makes her feel unexpectedly clammy all over, in a good way; a _very_ good way.  They kiss deep and wet, and her fingers ache to start running through Regina’s hair, but settle for kneading at the sweater on her shoulders-- _evidence,_ her brain reminds her, even as she gently runs her teeth along Regina’s bottom lip and then bites down with just a hint of force.  
  
It earns her a helpless little moan, and that’s what has her cupping Regina’s face, slowing them down a little--until they’re trading easy, slow kisses, the kinds that are going to chap their lips and leave them breathless.  It's a little more intense than it ever has been before, kissing Regina with this much gentle focus, and after a while Emma feels like she has to pull away from it and so that she can process how much she feels.  
  
Putting words to sensation has never been something she’s naturally good at, but it feels important to at least _try_ , now.  
  
She’s still trapped in the shirt, Regina’s arms wrapped around her, and she presses her forehead against Regina’s temple and takes a few deep breaths.  
  
“Impulse control has never been our friend,” Regina says, in a voice worn and deepened with obvious arousal, but then she lets go of a shaky sigh and just runs a hand through Emma’s hair, which seems to soothe them both a little.  “But if this is us starting over, I’d rather not do it in Eugenia Lucas’ laundry room.”  
  
Emma laughs softly, feeling like her heart is going to escape from her body altogether--like it’s just going to get up and gallop off somewhere--and then pulls back before rubbing gently at the smudged lipstick by the corners of Regina’s mouth.  “Yeah.  This is even less classy than your office, I’m pretty sure.”  
  
Regina chases after her thumb, biting down on the tip of it gently, and then says, “ _When_ this happens, again--I want us to be completely alone, without a single restriction on the time we have or … how loud you can be.”  
  
Emma knows she’s blushing furiously at the slight reminder of the fact that however many hands or pillows try to muffle her, there have been a hell of a lot of instances of both of them freezing mid-sex and wondering if they’re going to have to have a really awkward conversation with Henry about the vaguely pained noises coming from their bedroom.  
  
“That sounds--” she starts to say, and then just darts forward for another kiss.  
  
“Soon,” Regina checks, reaching for the hem of her sodden shirt and lifting it up carefully.  
  
“Yeah.  Soon,” Emma agrees, before squinting up at the shelf above the dryers and then snorting softly.  “Well.  I guess I’m wearing denim for the rest of the day.”  
  
…  
  
She figures they’re not fooling anyone; Ruby, at least, looks at them knowingly and then winks at her, even though Regina made her turn in two separate circles before permitting her back into the main room, and declared her appearance passable.  
  
Still, nobody here is stupid enough to call out the _Mayor_ on sneaking a quickie or something like it, so they retake their seats without comment as Mary Margaret gets up and asks, “Is everyone ready for dessert?”  
  
A chorus of _yes-_ es sounds, and Henry tenses briefly, but then seems to remember that he helped _make_ dessert, and then he just eagerly looks towards the kitchen, waiting for his creation to be brought out.  
  
Ruby starts to get up, but Mary Margaret puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “You wait on us year-round.  Let us wait on you, for once, okay?”  
  
Ruby smiles a little and then rolls her eyes, but Emma says, “Yeah--stay put.  I’ll help.  Since you two cooked.”  
  
They disappear into the kitchen together and Emma looks around at the utter mess there, before tentatively following Mary Margaret to the refrigerator.   
  
“We’re going to warm it back up--and then obviously, cream and coffee orders will need to be dealt with,” Mary Margaret says, decisively.  
  
“I’ll deal with the coffee.  You’re better off doing stuff with uh, ovens and knives.”  
  
Mary Margaret smiles at her and then asks, “You’re having a good time.”  
  
“I am,” Emma says, fighting the urge to look at the laundry room.  “Regina’s wearing her kid gloves, Henry’s too busy stuffing himself to think about how she might be evil, and it looks like my best friend is having a nice time--what more could I want?”  
  
Mary Margaret’s smile fades for a second, but then brightens again.  “I am, actually.  Having a good time.”  
  
“Alan seems... like he’s a grower.  I thought he was kind of a jerk--”  
  
“So did I,” Mary Margaret confesses, and they both laugh.  “But I don’t think that’s it; I think he just processes things differently.  He’s _really_ smart.  He also likes to brag about how smart he is, but you sort of... get used to that.”  
  
Emma smiles again and then gently punches her in the shoulder.  “Hey.  Good for you.”  
  
“Yes.  I hope... I hope that it will be,” Mary Margaret agrees, and then blows out some air and runs the back of her hand past her bangs.  “Okay.  Can you go get coffee orders?  I’ll deal with the pies.”  
  
Emma nods and heads back into the diner, wondering where Ruby’s order pad is--there’s no way she’s going to be able to remember all of this, and it’s not like she can write down thirty orders on her hand.  As she pushes the door open, she thinks, _right, a napkin, maybe_? and then sort of freezes in the doorway.  
  
“Kathryn--hey,” she says, as smoothly as she can, before walking the rest of the way inside and shooting Regina an urgent look.  “What brings you here?  Aren’t you doing the holiday with family?”  
  
“Oh, we are, but Regina told us about this get-together and I thought I’d add to the festivities with some cupcakes,” Kathryn says, so genuinely that Emma almost cringes.  She watches helplessly as Kathryn starts scanning the crowd slowly and smiles at a few familiar faces, before pausing on Dr. Whale.  
  
He seems oblivious to who he is, but that doesn’t change that something shifts onto Kathryn’s face; it’s curiosity at first, and then concern, but she dismisses it again just as quickly and then just looks at Regina and Henry.  
  
To Emma, it’s as if the room has fallen deadly silent, but it hasn’t.  Everyone is still talking; it’s just that all the other voices somehow disappear into background noise, and she can only hear what these three people are saying.  
  
Kathryns, “How was dinner?” is answered with positive noises by both Regina and Henry, and then Henry opens his mouth, and Emma actually contemplates launching herself halfway across the diner to tackle him, because this just _cannot_ go anywhere good.  
  
“Did Mr. Nolan not come because of the fight?” Henry asks, looking concerned.  
  
Emma actually hears the tick of the clock and looks at Regina with wide eyes, but something hard sets around Regina’s mouth, and Emma knows that this is going to happen, now.  
  
“The fight?” Kathryn repeats, and then laughs shortly and says, “Oh, you mean his hand?  There wasn’t a fight, Henry, he just got into a tussle with a really big dog--a Great Dane, I think.  It bruised him a little but he’s fine now.”  
  
Henry absorbs this silently, and then that stubborn, one hundred percent Mills look comes crashing over his face and he says, “No, he didn’t.  He punched Dr. Whale in the hospital and that’s how he hurt his hand, and his face, I guess.”  
  
Kathryn looks like she wants to laugh again, but then catches Regina’s eye and stops cold of it.  She just... stops, for a long few seconds, until she looks back at Dr. Whale and then at the empty chair across from Dr. Whale.  Then, she slowly asks, “When was this?”  
  
“When Emma had her accident,” Henry says.  He looks like he wants to say more, but doesn’t; and then the door behind Emma opens and Mary Margaret asks, “Hey, how are those coffee orders coming?”  
  
Time stops altogether.  
  
Without a word being exchanged, Emma knows that Kathryn’s done the math.  Mary Margaret, though, is oblivious in much the same way that Alan is--does he even know who David Nolan is married to?  Would he have _reasons_ to?--and so when Kathryn turns towards the kitchen and says, “ _You_ ”, broken and sharp all at once, Mary Margaret just looks baffled.  
  
The timing on this is so wrong, Emma thinks, even as Regina gets handed a basket of baked goods and Kathryn starts walking measuredly towards the kitchen.  
  
Mary Margaret clues in quickly at that point and blanches, holding up her hands in apology.  “It’s not what you think.  It’s not--”  
  
“He says you’re nothing but a _friend_ ,” Kathryn cuts her off, in that same broken voice.  “That it’s nothing more than two people with an interest in nature having coffee.”  
  
This time, when Emma thinks the diner has fallen completely silent, she’s not wrong.  
  
“That _is_ all it is,” Mary Margaret says, sounding close to tears.  “I promise that nothing has ever happened between us.  I would never--”  
  
Kathryn stops in her advance, and then covers her mouth with her hand.  
  
“I’m with him, now,” Mary Margaret adds, faintly, before pointing at Alan, who seemingly on instinct touches his blackened eye and then casually watches the drama before him unfold.  
  
“And when my husband found out, he assaulted your... boyfriend,” Kathryn says, muffled behind her hand.  A sob escapes her, shortly, and then she closes her eyes, squeezing out tears from behind them all the same.  “Does that sound like _nothing_ to you, Miss Blanchard?”  
  
Mary Margaret says nothing.    
  
Emma looks over Henry, who looks horrified at what he’s done, now; whatever he thought he was sharing, and no matter how much he seems committed to the idea of David and Mary Margaret being the ultimate dream couple, it obviously hasn’t ever occurred to him that his _happy ending_ would result in a hell of a lot of casualties.    
  
Regina has been quietly talking to him, rubbing his arms softly, and when he gives her a shaky nod, she steps around him and reaches for Kathryn’s arm.  
  
“Let’s get out of here, shall we?” she asks, quietly.  It’s in that authoritative leadership voice that people seem to just instinctively follow, and without looking at Mary Margaret again, Kathryn lets herself be led out of the diner.  
  
The room explodes in conversation immediately afterwards, and Alan pushes away from the table and goes to Mary Margaret by the kitchen door, looking apologetic but also firm.  
  
“Look--I like you, but I don’t like anything this complicated, and until you can promise me that your--ex-boyfriend--”  
  
“He’s not my ex-boyfriend,” Mary Margaret says, dully.  
  
“Whatever he is, he’s a little loose-fisted and I can handle one black eye but I’m not looking to get the full set, here ,” Alan says, firmly, before gentling his voice a little and adding, “Call me when you’ve sorted all of this out, okay?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods, and then--with one desperately ashamed look at the rest of the diner’s dinner guests--turns on her heels and flees back into the kitchen.  
  
Emma’s phone vibrates a second later, and she reaches for it in a haze, as she sees Ruby kneel down by Henry’s chair to talk to him.  “Hello?”  
  
“Kathryn’s in the car; if you’ll get Henry, we’ll swing by in a moment,” Regina says; it’s not really a request so much as an order, which takes Emma back a little.  
  
“Um, I’ll bring Henry to you--but Mary Margaret needs someone as much as Kathryn does right now, and--”  
  
“You can’t be serious,” Regina says, flatly.   
  
“She’s my best _friend_ , Regina.”  
  
“Yes, and your best friend has brought this upon herself.  I thought you and Kathryn--”  
  
Emma sighs deeply and then turns towards the kitchen, pushing the swinging door open again.  “I _do_ like Kathryn, but this isn’t elementary school; I’m not picking sides.”  
  
“Well, you obviously are,” Regina bites out at her.  “Really, out of everyone in this town who I would expect to sympathize with _cheaters--_ ”  
  
“They never did _anything_.”  
  
“They _wanted to_ ,” Regina snaps, even louder.  “How is that any less awful than just _doing_ it?  Would you honestly have preferred if I’d spent my time _wishing_ that I was with someone else?”  
  
“Are you actually asking me to give you credit for the fact that you loved me even while you were fucking around on me?” Emma asks; it’s so surreal a notion that it takes her a few seconds to get angry.  “Are you _crazy?_ You don’t get _points_ for how you felt.  You get points for what you _did_ , and let me tell you, you’re averaging a zero when it comes to the moral high ground Olympics.”  
  
“I see; so having made a terrible mistake once means I am now forever disqualified from recognizing right from wrong.   _Thank you_ for clarifying the situation for me, Miss Swan--very much appreciated,” Regina bitterly snarls at her.  
  
“Oh, _bite me_.  You know that’s not what I meant.”  
  
“Why is it _so hard_ for you to admit that your precious roommate was in the wrong, here?”  
  
“That’s not the _point_.  The point is that we’re all just people, Regina.  Everyone fucks up sometimes, and your real issue should be with _him_ , not with her.”  
  
“He would’ve never stepped out of line if she hadn’t--”  
  
“You of all people know that a half-working relationship isn’t something worth preserving, unless everything you told me about why you screwed Graham was just a load of manipulative crap,” Emma says, sharply.  
  
For a second, all she can hear is Regina’s breathing, and then she tersely says, “It wasn’t.  I just don’t believe in the innocent little lamb act that Miss Blanchard excels at.  She knew exactly what she was doing, starting this flirtation with a married man--and the decent thing to do would’ve been to _stop it_.  That stands separate from any wrongs I myself may have committed.”  
  
If seeing red was actually something physically possible, Emma is pretty sure she’d be doing it by now.  "Okay, you know what, forget it.  Go home _without_ Henry.  I’m not exposing our kid to your incredibly hypocritical vendetta against a woman who’s never done anything wrong to you _or_ to Kathryn, so you can come by and pick him up tomorrow morning.”  
  
She hangs up before Regina can get another word in, and then looks at Mary Margaret, slumped against the oven and staring blindly ahead.  
  
“Hey,” she says, and sucks it up; the urge to punch something is great, but maybe if she just freely hugs someone who really needs a hug, it’ll dissipate.  “I’m _so_ sorry about all of this.  If I’d known that she was coming I would’ve briefed Henry on--”  
  
“No,” Mary Margaret cuts her off, quietly, shaking her head.  “It’s for the best.  It was... _exhausting_ , living with this many secrets.  And Regina isn’t wrong, you know.  Just because we never acted on our feelings doesn’t mean we weren’t living a lie all the same.”  
  
“Alan will come around,” Emma says, after a moment, slinging her arm around Mary Margaret’s back.  “And--until he does, we have cocoa and a kid to assure that this isn’t all his fault, if you think you’re up for that.”  
  
“Oh, gosh,” Mary Margaret sighs, before laughing and sniffling all at once, and then turning to balefully look at the oven.  “I think I burned dessert.”  
  
“It’s okay,” Emma says, before reaching and shutting the oven off.  “I think we’re past the point where pie is going to fix anything.”  
  
Mary Margaret looks at her briefly, and then takes another deep breath and says, “I hope Kathryn is okay.  I hope--”  
  
She stops herself from saying it, but Emma knows what she’s thinking; it’s the same thing she once thought, even when trying to hate Regina with every fiber of her being, every time she had to picture her by herself in that massive, empty-seeming house.  
  
“I’ll check on him.  Okay?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods, and then laughs a little wetly again, and finally just leans into her side.  “Happy Thanksgiving, Emma.”  
  
Whatever else it is, it’s definitely a memorable one on all fronts, Emma thinks, and leans her head against Mary Margaret’s for just a moment.  
  
“Yeah.  Happy Thanksgiving.”


	19. Chapter 19

She’s woken up early the next morning either by Henry’s soft snoring on the pull-out, or by the low and urgent murmuring of voices taking place downstairs.  The latter is what gets her past rubbing at her eyes and feeling disoriented, because eventually Mary Margaret gets loud enough for a “David, _please_ ” to be cleanly audible--and that just has her lying on her back and staring at the ceiling.  
  
Her phone vibrates next to her pillow and she reaches for it; Regina’s eighth message, this one just a plain _I’m not rescheduling the shoot just because we fundamentally disagree about what fidelity looks like_ , which Emma supposes passes for an apology, by Regina’s standards.  Something like it, anyway.  
  
Glancing down at Henry, she focuses on the way his fist is curled around his blanket tight and the way his face is twisting in the grips of a dream of some kind.  He actually looks like a kid right now, not the miniature adult who they’d had to reassure for hours last night.  None of what happened was in any way his fault, obviously, but the guilt hadn’t really dissipated with repeat assurances along those lines; and in the end, the best they’d been able to do was tell him that _eventually_ , Kathryn and David and Mary Margaret would all be all right.  
  
Thinking about the hot mess that is that triangle has her temper sinking down to a simmer all over again, and a few moments later, the front door slams and she swings her legs over the edge of the bed.  
  
Henry groggily blinks at her a few times and then says, “I had a dream that you left again.”  
  
“Kid,” she sighs, and settles on her knees next to him.  “I’m not--”  
  
“You were fighting, though.  Last night,” he says, and then looks at her phone a little accusingly.  “I can tell by how you were typing.  You get angry thumbs when you’re mad at Mom.”  
  
It’s enough to make her feel a little sheepish, and she runs her fingers through his hair and says, “Just because we argue doesn’t mean we’re--breaking up, or that I’m leaving.  We just argue, Henry.  It’s not the end of the world; in fact, I’m seeing your mom later today and I’m sure we’ll be back to normal by then, okay?”  
  
“The campaign photos,” he says, before making a face.  “They always look so stupid and fake.  Nobody is that happy about being the mayor.”  
  
“Well, your mom comes pretty close,” Emma says, and for a second they just smile at each other.  
  
His smile slips a little as he studies her face, though, and then he shifts up a little more until his shoulders are against the wall and he can look her square in the eyes.  “Can I ask you something?”  
  
“Always, kid.”  
  
“If I... wanted to call you something other than Emma.  Would that be okay?”  
  
The surprise his question triggers is so acute that she knows it’s showing on her face, but she reaches for his hand before he can take that as a bad sign, and curls her thumb around most of his fingers.  “Like what?”  
  
His eyebrows draw together faintly, and then he carefully says, “I … kind of tried something yesterday; I’m not sure if you noticed, but... that felt weird.  You’re not _Mom_ , even if you kind of are my mom.”  
  
For a few seconds, she has no idea what to say at all, and then just squeezes his much-smaller hand (for now; he’ll be tall, when he grows up, much like his father was) and tries for a smile.  “Okay.  You don’t have to call me... that.  Do you have anything else in mind?”  
  
His pupils dilate slightly, and then he looks away.  “Well...”  
  
“Henry, it’s okay.  Seriously.  If you want to call me something else--”  
  
“If you say your name really fast it kind of sounds like _Ma_ , which is what they say in Ireland and Scotland, and I think I might be from Scotland originally because Wikipedia said Mills is a common Gaelic last name--” he rushes out, all in more or less one giant sentence, and she laughs without meaning to.  
  
He stops, looking wounded, and she shakes her head.  “Wow.  You’ve really looked into this, haven’t you.”  
  
“Of course I have,” he says, looking at her like she’s crazy for even asking.  “It’s a _big deal_ , Emma.  It has to sound good and not be stupid.”  
  
Sometimes, it’s really like he’s the adult and she’s the kid, but then he does something like cry because Snow White’s life is kind of a mess right now and everything rights itself again; she’ll take this moment in stride, and leans forward to kiss him on the top of his head.  “We’ll try it.”  
  
“Okay.  I’m probably going to um, accidentally call you Emma a lot,” he warns her.  
  
“I think I’ll be okay, kid.”  
  
“Okay,” he says, and then a little shyly adds, “ _Ma_.”  
  
It’s just about enough to ensure that she’ll probably not throttle his mother later in the day.  
  
…  
  
Mary Margaret looks shaken when she gets down, after sending Henry to go take his shower before breakfast, but is also somewhat vigorously stirring something on the stove, and Emma leans against the counter next to her and says, “Is this your version of breaking things?”  
  
“Maybe,” Mary Margaret says, a little shortly, before sighing and looking up at her; that’s when the faint tear tracks are visible, and Emma feels like an ass immediately.  
  
“Shit, I’m sorry--did he do something--”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Mary Margaret says, emphatically, before letting go of the spoon and just covering her head with her hands.  “He’d never; he just … wanted to let me know he’s staying at the Bed & Breakfast and that... well, whenever I’m ready to start dating him--”  
  
“ _No_ ,” Emma gasps.  
  
“Yeah,” Mary Margaret sighs, and then smiles at her bitterly.  “I’m living every girl’s dream right now, right?  The guy I’ve liked for _years_ is finally ready to be with me, but only because his wife finally pieced together that their marriage wasn’t working out; not because he actually _wanted_ to be with me more than her, but because she left him.”  
  
“Oh, shit, she did?” Emma asks, before grimacing. “Sorry--not the point--”  
  
“No, of course it is,” Mary Margaret says, her eyes watering all over again.  “Of course it is.  He would’ve stayed with her indefinitely and we both know it.  He would’ve stayed with her and flattened any guy who had the audacity to _like_ me to the ground.  I don’t know--”  She puts a hand to her neck and shakes her head.  “I don’t know.”  
  
“So... that’s it?” Emma asks, carefully.  “You don’t … want to be with him?”  
  
Mary Margaret takes a deep breath and then somewhat brokenly says, “Not like this.”  
  
“God, I’m sorry,” Emma says, and then awkwardly lifts her arms.  “Do you want a hug?”  
  
Mary Margaret nods, looking guilty, but then steps into her arms and squeezes her tightly anyway.  It occurs to Emma for probably the first time ever that her roommate, who seems so connected to everything and so _happy_ , is every bit as lonely as she herself was both before and after becoming a part of Regina and Henry’s little family unit.  
  
Even when it’s rough, though, that unit’s there; and what is Mary Margaret left with, now?  
  
“If you want me to punch him...” Emma starts to say, and she can feel Mary Margaret laugh soundlessly.  
  
“That won’t fix anything.  I just--I need to decide if … if this is good enough, for me,” she then says, and wipes at her eyes.  “And I don’t want to be his rebound girl, either way, so it’s just going to take time.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, letting go a little and waiting for Mary Margaret to step back.  “Well, I wasn’t the biggest fan of the idea myself, but time does actually help a lot, you know.  The whole Graham thing is starting to feel like it happened in a different life; I can mostly look at him without thinking, _you’re the jerk who slept with my wife,_ and about eighty percent of the time I can also look at Regina without thinking about what a bitch she is, so...”  
  
Mary Margaret sort of rolls her eyes.  “You don’t mean that.”  
  
“No, I do.  I’m not blind to what’s wrong with her,” Emma says, reaching for the mug of tea that Mary Margaret is sipping from, frowning at it when it’s not immediately handed over.  “I’m not an _idiot_.  She’s a little crazy and a lot vengeful.  I mean, if you thought your boyfriend was cheating on you, you’d just cry and confront him, right?”  
  
“I’d mostly just cry,” Mary Margaret says, surrendering the tea at last.   
  
“Yeah, me too,” Emma says, and then adds, “Well, and break a few things.  Like the food processor, maybe.  But Regina--her only way of dealing with anything is retaliation.  Just look at what she did with the school board.”  
  
“That’s--” Mary Margaret says, and then just shakes her head.  “I can’t imagine ever thinking that way.”  
  
“No, me either,” Emma says, before sighing softly.  “But...  we all have our problems, and at least she’s willing to admit that this is one.  Our next session with Archie should be fun, after the last few days.”  
  
“Poor Archie,” Mary Margaret says, gravely.  
  
“Yeah, he’s not getting paid nearly enough,” Emma says, before taking a sip of the tea and then handing the mug back.  
  
“Oh, you left me a sip.   _Thank you_.”  
  
“Uh huh.  So... in other news--the kid wants to start calling me _Ma_ ,” Emma says, putting her hands in her pockets.  “Weird, huh?”  
  
Mary Margaret looks at her a little bit stunned, and then beams at her so spontaneously that Emma just feels dumb; she knows she’s growing red really quickly and adds, “It’s not like... a really big deal or anything, I just thought you should know because he’s probably going to be trying it out loud, soon, and--”  
  
“ _Emma_ ,” Mary Margaret says, shutting her up.   
  
She shifts, and then sighs, before smiling a little at the floor.  “Okay, I guess it’s pretty cool.  Maybe.   _Maybe_ it’ll just be weird.”  
  
“You’ll get used to it,” Mary Margaret tells her, before awkwardly and slowly punching her in the shoulder, feather light; it’s enough to make Emma laugh a little.  “Right?”  
  
She rolls her eyes, but yeah; out of all the things she’s had to adjust to, lately, this is definitely the nicest by far.  
  
…  
  
Her patrol takes her past the B&B, so it’s not like she doesn’t have reasons to be there, but it doesn’t really require her to get out of the car and check the premises for the presence of one probably depressed adult male; Graham won’t care, though, if she clocks out for fifteen minutes to check on David and...  
  
It seems like the thing to do.  
  
Whatever he’s doing in his life, he’s been pretty supportive and, dare she say it, a good friend when Emma didn’t even really know that she wanted one, and even if she has no idea how to return the favor, the least she can do is _try_.  
  
Granny directs her to his room with barely a look, which is appreciated, and then she raps her knuckles against the door, tucking her hands in her pockets as he says, “A second.”  
  
He hasn’t shaved, which isn’t much of a surprise; but what is shocking is just how bone-weary he looks.  Mary Margaret wasn’t kidding about this situation being draining, and it seems like all the years of trying to straddle lives are finally catching up to David all at once.  
  
“I didn’t bring a puppy, and I’m on duty so I didn’t bring... well, my other coping mechanism, but--I thought maybe you’d just want to talk about it?” she ventures.  It’s probably not the wrong move.  David seems like the cry-and-talk type, not the stoic-punch-things type.   
  
That means she’s really out of her depth, but he opens up and lets her in and then just looks at her for a few seconds.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re the last person I expected to see today,” he says, before walking back over to his unmade bed and tugging the covers over it a little.  “You’re friends with my wife _and_ with … Mary Margaret.  I’m pretty sure that you also predicted that what I was doing would hurt them both, and... you’re right.”  
  
“So what, I’m supposed to be busy running a victory lap right now?” she asks, scuffing the toe of her boot into the carpet and then sitting down on the uncomfortably small couch near the window.  “Not really how this works, David.”  
  
“No, I guess not,” he says, hands in his back pockets, before moving to sit next to her.  “I’m not really sure _how_ this works.”  
  
“Kathryn’s better off without you,” Emma says, after a few seconds.  It’s not the nicest thing she could say, but other people will probably tell him nice crap at some point in the next few weeks; and maybe, he just needs someone to be honest with him.  It’s what friends are for, maybe.  “I wouldn’t feel bad about that.  Yeah, it sucks that she’s hurting, but she can go and find someone to be with who really loves her.  The right way, I mean.”  
  
He takes a deep breath and rubs his fingertips against the stubble on his cheeks, and then sighs.  “I hope she’ll eventually come to see it that way.”  
  
“As for Mary Margaret...” Emma says, and watches from the corner of her eye as he flinches.  “You just--”  
  
“Screwed that up?” he asks, managing a self-deprecating half-smile, but the hurt in his eyes is real.  “Yeah, she told me that this morning.  And I get it; I just--”  
  
He doesn’t finish the sentence and Emma can’t really read his mind, so she just sits there, wiggling her legs and bouncing her knees up, until that, too, starts feeling awkward; then, she just blurts out, “When it’s the real thing, you forgive each other for a lot of stuff.  Even when you don’t think you ever can.  You just--learn to deal.”  
  
David looks at her, raising his eyebrow a little, and she looks away and wrings her hands together.  
  
“You didn’t do anything really _wrong_ to her.  You just didn’t do right by her, either.  But that’s not... you don’t just get one shot, y’know, at being happy with someone else.  I have to believe that you get more than that if you want it badly enough, or--”  She shrugs.  “I just do.”  
  
After a moment, David puts a hand on her shoulder and says, “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?  I didn’t--”   
  
“ _Thank you_ ,” he says again, and then smiles a little more sincerely.  “Do you want to continue this after your shift ends, with a bottle of... what is it you drink?”  
  
“Oh, after what I have to do this afternoon, I’ll drink _anything_ ,” Emma says, wrinkling her nose.  
  
“Endless paperwork?” David guesses.  
  
It’s not a bad guess, but grimly, Emma shakes her head.  “No.   _Much_ worse than that.”  
  
…  
  
She gets waved in without pause and walks in on Sidney fixing Regina’s hair; it’s not the best start of what is bound to be an uncomfortable experience, given that she’s still mad at Regina and Regina finds ways to be irate about the fact that air insists on being breathed.  
  
There’s always something about the way Sidney acts around Regina that seems more than just subservient; it’s weirdly adoring, like he’s just praying that after enough years of acting as her unappointed lapdog, she’ll give him the treat he’s been waiting for all this time.  It’ll never _happen,_ but that doesn’t mean that Emma’s not still faced with a man she doesn’t like at all basically attempting to mark her _wife_.  
  
“Good,” Regina says, noticing her.  “You came.  And opted to wear something that _resembles_ a work-appropriate outfit.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes, and promises herself that she’ll never, _ever_ reveal that she did actually spend fifteen minutes trying to iron the baby-blue dress shirt she’s wearing, and spent two minutes with a dishrag trying to polish up her shoes a little.  “Yeah, I’m here.  Can we--”  She motions with her hand and directs a glare at Sidney.  “I think her hair’s _fine_ , Mr. Glass.”  
  
“Well, one can’t rush perfection,” he says, smiling with teeth at both of them; but when Regina says, “That’ll do, Sidney”, he does back away and goes for his camera.  
  
“Where do you want me?” Emma asks, moving further into the room and then standing next to Regina, pulling off her jacket before Regina can demand she does and draping it over the back of one of the office chairs.  “In front of the American flag or--in front of your many certificates of excellence in... whatever the hell they’re for?”  
  
Regina’s eyes flash at her.  “ _Management,_ dear.”  
  
“Ah.  Being a totally psychotic control freak, in other words,” Emma mumbles, but she knows it’s loud enough for Regina to have heard her when her mouth sets a little bit harder.   
  
“In front of the desk, to start,” Regina finally says, before bending down to tug on the end of her dress--this skin-tight black and white thing that Emma swears she’s never seen on her before, let alone in the office--and then straightening again, squinting at Emma’s face.  
  
“What?  Is there food stuck to my--”  
  
Regina snorts. “Shockingly, _no_.  I was wondering what to do with your hair to make you look less like a beach vagrant.”  
  
“ _Or_ you could just take these pictures by yourself, because I actually _do_ have better things to be doing with my time than--”  
  
“I wouldn’t say that drinking with a man who just got thrown out of his house counts as _better_ , actually, but to each their own.”  
  
Emma feels her face heat up.  “What the fuck, are you _following_ me?”  
  
Regina’s smugness is almost tangible.  “No, dear.  What’s the point, when you’re so very predictable in all the ways in which you’ll defend the strays of this town--even the rabid ones that don’t _deserve_ your attention?”  
  
A deep breath isn’t getting her anywhere, nor is counting to five, but thankfully she looks over just in time to see the unrepressed glee on Sidney’s face at their arguing, and that makes her suck it up for a few seconds.  “You know what?” she says, before plastering on a smile.  “Let’s--not do this, not now.  Your campaign is more important than our silly bickering, _honey_ , so let’s take a few nice pictures so that Mr. Glass can go home and print you some posters and then we can both go back to our important, worthwhile jobs.”  
  
Regina’s eyes narrow at her, but all she says is, “Fine.”  
  
They both lean against the front of the desk; Regina crosses her arms, which was what Emma was planning on doing, so all she can do is either grab onto the sides of the desk, behind her, or let them dangle in front of her, which will probably draw attention to her crotch, which isn’t much of an option.  Chagrined, she just lets them dangle at her sides, and then looks at Sidney.  “We’re ready.”  
  
“Try to smile,” Regina sort of mumbles, askance, before whipping out that incredibly put-on Joker-face that Emma has always found both fascinating and terrifying.  
  
They wait for the sound of a shutter depressing, but instead just get a cleared throat.  “If--the Deputy Sheriff could stop scowling...”  
  
“I’m not scowling,” Emma says, before scowling at Sidney.  “ _This_ is a scowl.  That other thing is just what my face looks like.”  
  
The man blanches, to his credit, and then looks at Regina for help.  Regina leans in a little bit closer and hisses, “I hear that thinking happy thoughts helps.”  
  
“I’m a little short on those,” Emma hisses back, and then glares at Regina again.  “Unlike you, I don’t get off on the misery of other people.”  
  
 _That_ gets a reaction, and Regina rails on her fully.  “You think I _enjoyed_ this?  You’re not the one who had to be supportive as a desolate woman cried about the utterly unseen betrayal she’d just experienced.  You didn’t drive her to her _home_ , where she threw out her husband and then had to deal with the reminders of him in every single room in the house.  If you honestly think--”  
  
“I _think_ that this is pretty much terrible for everyone involved, which is something that you and I should _both_ understand and be able to cope with.  Christ, Regina, the world isn’t just this black and white place where there’s only heroes and villains.  It’s not Henry’s _book_.”  
  
Regina’s jaw clicks, and then she says, “Perhaps _not_ , but that doesn’t negate that _Kathryn_ did nothing to deserve this.”  
  
Archie has been telling them both that they should visualize their anger as being inside of a little red balloon that slowly just rises, and rises, and rises, until it’s out of sight and out of their minds altogether.  It’s worked pretty well, until now, except when she looks at Regina more fully, Emma’s little red balloon just _explodes_.    
  
“And what, I _did_?” she demands.  
  
Regina looks at Sidney, who--unlike a decent person--shows absolutely no inclination of leaving the room, and then says, “Emma--not _now_.”  
  
“No, screw that--are you saying I _did_ something to deserve what you did to me?”  
  
“No, I _know_ that you didn’t, now, but I thought--”  
  
“Sidney--get the fuck _out_ ,” Emma bites out at him, with enough force that he actually takes a step back and then retreats from the room.  The door barely clicks shut behind him before she turns to face Regina again.  “Jesus, I said this to Mary Margaret this morning but I didn’t know that I was this _right_ about it.  You actually thought that I _deserved_ to see you with someone else; that I had that coming because of what I was doing.”  
  
Regina swallows, muscles in her throat moving abruptly, and then she closes her eyes.  “Yes, I did.”  
  
“God, what is wrong with you?” Emma asks, her hands balling into fists without her permission.  “I mean, who _thinks_ like that?”  
  
“You were never supposed to be able to hurt me,” Regina says, after a second, her eyes fluttering open again; and they’re so void of feeling that Emma feels another spike of rage at the sight of them, pupils expanding slowly.  “And when you did--”  
  
“You found a way to get even.”  
  
Regina’s nostrils flare.  “I found a way to stop you from hurting me further, a way out of a relationship that wasn’t sustainable.  And I found a way to let you know how it _felt_ , to be in my position.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, clenching her teeth briefly.  “You know what?  That doesn’t sound at _all_ like the kind of shit that someone who loves me would do.”  
  
The careful, angry composure on Regina’s face cracks a little.  “Of _course_ I love you.  How can you even--”  
  
“You systematically set out to _hurt me_ because I’d _hurt you_ , Regina.  In what fucking world--”  
  
“My God, what _else_ could prompt a reaction so extreme?” Regina demands, her voice rough.  “What _else_ could drive me to do something so abhorrent, so foolish and so regrettable?”  
  
They stare at each other silently, less than a foot apart, and then Emma manages to let her fingers unfurl a little.  “I will _never_ understand you.”  
  
“I don’t _expect_ you to understand.  You should be so lucky as to never know what it’s like to irrevocably lose someone you love once, let alone twice.”  
  
“You didn’t lose me until--”  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake, Emma--I never really _had_ you, and I knew that in any event, I’d never get to keep you,” Regina says, with trembling hands and quickly-glossing eyes.  “And it made me _so_ angry, in the long run; because what have I _ever_ done to deserve loving someone who would leave me a second time over?”  
  
“You should have--” Emma starts to say, but stops when Regina’s eyelashes flutter down rapidly, catching tears on the ends.  
  
“Yes, I should have,” Regina agrees, before wiping at her eyes.  “I should have done _everything_ differently, starting with the first time I propositioned you--but I didn’t know any better.  All I knew is that I never wanted to feel the way I did after Daniel passed away again, and, well.  Here we are.”  
  
It makes her feel weak, a little, the way that seeing Regina cry just makes her give in; but her version of love really is nothing like Regina’s, which sounds painful and like something to fear.  God, she really doesn’t _want_ to think of love that way, and if that makes her weak, somehow, then so be it.  She sighs, and after a few seconds, just says, “Sidney’s probably doing a jig outside because he thinks we’re about to file for divorce.”  
  
“ _Sidney_ can continue praying for that moment for the rest of his existence as far as I’m concerned,” Regina says, tartly, before swiping her fingers underneath her eyes again.  “Ugh--is my make-up--”  
  
“You look--” Emma starts, and then hesitates.  “You know--can I be honest?”  
  
“Are you ever _not_?” Regina counters.  
  
“Let me just--”  
  
It’s not much.  She ruffles Regina’s hair a little, brushes away the few mascara stains visible under her eyes, and then reaches for a tissue on the desk and blots out the most violent red in her lipstick, before taking a step back.    
  
“I’m not in my twenties anymore,” Regina says, a little cautiously.  “It takes a little more to not make me look--”  
  
“It’s not _old_ that you have to worry about, because you’re not.  What you need, though, is to look approachable.  And I probably need to stand next to you like I’m a person who _likes_ you, not like you pulled the Deputy into your office so that you could demonstrate that you knew local law enforcement,” Emma says, smoothing her hands over the straps on the dress and then smirking at it almost despite herself.  “By the way--I’m a fan of this, even if I can’t see you ever wearing it to work.”  
  
“Not why I bought it,” Regina readily admits, as she somewhat coyly tugs on the hem again.  “I thought you’d … appreciate it.”  
  
Emma pauses in the middle of straightening again and looks up, cautiously.  “You mean you thought I’d appreciate pulling it off you.”  
  
Regina actually flushes lightly, insofar as she ever really flushes, and then grudgingly admits, “If you have to be so crude about it--”  
  
“ _Crude_?  You’re the one who thought a laundry room was a good place to tell me you wanted me spread out and screaming--”  
  
“ _Not_ the words I used, Miss Swan,” Regina says, and Emma gets up the rest of the way and smirks.  
  
“They might as _well_ have been.”  
  
“Well, base as your vocabulary is I’m not surprised you went for the single most prurient interpretation of a rather demure invitation--”  
  
“Hey, you _like_ my base vocabulary sometimes--almost as much as I like this dress,” Emma cuts her off, before unintentionally glancing at the desk and then spotting a heavy-looking glass paperweight there.    
  
It brings some memories flooding back, and she knows she’s smirking a little wider before looking back at Regina...   
  
… who obviously is having no issues following her line of thought, and just raises her eyebrows.  “That’s not _quite_ what I had in mind for my campaign shoot, but it _is_ likely to get you to actually smile and I’m sure we’d at least secure the male vote.”  
  
The wry comment cuts through the wire-hot tension between them, and Emma just chuckles and says, “God--can you imagine?”  
  
“I’m trying _not_ to, if only because we do need to take these pictures and I’d like to at least look _vaguely_ professional,” Regina says, before reaching out and running a swift hand through Emma’s hair.  “I lied about your hair, also.  It always looks great, which is horrifying given that you spend no time taking care of it at all.”  
  
“Good hair genes,” Emma says, before assessing Regina more seriously again, and finally putting one of her fingers against Regina’s lips.  “Look, before we do this--I’m not here to argue with you about other people’s lives any more, okay?  I know we disagree.  I know you’re Team Kathryn, and that’s fine; but my friends are my friends, and they were very good to me after I moved out.  If you can’t like them, then at least _tolerate_ them because they’re not going anywhere.  Okay?”  
  
Regina’s eyes darken a little, but ease up again just as quickly, and Emma can feel her softly sigh even before she nods.    
  
Emma lets her finger fall away and then says, “We’re supposed to be working on--convincing this town we’re in a good, stable relationship.  I’d like to just actually make that _happen_.  That means socializing with people--and, okay, you know what?  If you can sit through a dinner with Mary Margaret, I’ll have lunch with Sidney.”  
  
Regina’s eyebrow rockets up.  “My, this is _really_ important to you.”  
  
“Yeah, it kind of is,” Emma says, because this isn’t the time to start another round of argumentative foreplay.  
  
It only takes Regina a second to nod a few more times, and then she says, “All right.  But don’t expect me to ever grow _fond_ of her, because even looking at her makes me want to rip one of those frilly cardigans off her body and beat her with it.”  
  
Emma laughs despite herself, and then rolls her eyes a little.  “I’ll make it worth your while, _honey_.”  
  
Regina lets out a vaguely exasperated huff, and then just reaches for Emma’s cheek briefly, before dotting a quick kiss on her lips and pulling away just enough to look her in the eye.   
  
“What?” Emma asks, after a second, when that look gets almost unbearably intense.  
  
“I just want you to know,” Regina says, before brushing her thumb right by the corner of Emma’s mouth, and then scratching at the nape of her neck, “that I’m trying.  To be what you _actually_ deserve.  Even if it’s not always obvious, I really am trying.”  
  
“Oh, well,” Emma says, and then just gives up; closes her eyes and says, “I can tell.  Mostly.”  
  
“Good,” Regina says, all business again, before heading for the door, leaving Emma to enjoy her new favorite dress from behind for a few moments.  
  
…  
  
In large part due to the dress, their next attempt at pictures where nobody looks like they’re being tortured is far more successful.  
  
Sidney loads the folder containing the pictures and Emma leans over the back of Regina’s chair, sort of blocking his view of what’s going on, to watch as they scroll by.   
  
There’s about five really good ones, where they’re close enough to clearly be a couple but also not _so_ close that there’s anything suggestive about the shot; in one, Regina’s hand is sort of curling around her waist right by where she carries her badge, and Emma leans down and whispers, “I think that’s the one.  Gently possessive is a better look on you than--”  
  
“Psychotic control freak?” Regina responds, glancing up at her.  “I’ll take it under advisement, Deputy.”  
  
Emma can’t help but smirk a little again, and then looks at the few solo shots that Sidney took; they’re incredibly flattering, of course, and she might try to sneak a copy of one to just--well.  Maybe keep by the side of her bed, even though she figures it’s only a matter of time until she’s not staying at Mary Margaret’s anymore.  It’s almost December; the holidays are coming up, and she’ll be damned if she’s spending those away from her family.  
  
Even with the stupid arguing, it feels like they’re ready; it’s not like they’ve ever _not_ argued, so in that sense--  
  
“Wait,” she says, when in one of the pictures, there’s glare from one of the shuttered windows; in the next one, it’s gone again, and Emma hits the back button.  “This one--”    
  
“You’re serious?” Regina asks, looking at up her with a frown.  “The glare in it--”  
  
“No, I’m not saying choose this one; I’m saying that that picture--” Emma starts to say, before squinting.  “There’s something about the angle of the composition and the sun--”  
  
“I have _no_ idea what you’re talking about,” Regina says, looking at the picture again.  “It’s a dud; it’s vaguely out of focus and--”  
  
“Yes.  Yes it is; and it’s the only one in the series that is, because the other ones are all professional quality,” Emma says, straightening and then slowly turning to Sidney.  “Taken by a photographer with a particular fondness for shots taken at… forty-five degree angles.”  
  
“Emma, what on earth--”  
  
Emma ignores her and tilts her head at Sidney slightly.  “You’re the one who took those pictures.”  
  
“ _What_?” Regina asks, but Emma ignores her and just looks at her mark.  
  
He looks back at her evenly, but still with that _unbearable_ air of smug superiority, and maybe this isn’t exactly how local law enforcement is _supposed_ to behave, but another little red balloon pops out of nowhere when he just says, “Pictures?  What pictures?  I have no idea--”  
  
Her forearm is jammed up against his throat and he’s up against the wall in a heartbeat, and even then it takes nearly everything she has inside of her to not just _sock_ him upside the head.  “ _Cut the crap_.  God, I _knew_ we should’ve considered you--you and your pathetic obsession with _my wife_.”  
  
His eyes widen and he swallows against her arm, but can’t seem to vocalize anything, which is just fine by Emma.  
  
She presses down a little harder and then snarls, “ _Even_ if you’d split us up, she would’ve never noticed you, you sick _bastard_.”  
  
Regina reaches for her shoulder and says, “Emma--let him--”  
  
“You don’t _deserve her_ ,” the man coughs out, the minute her arm lets up a little; there’s something almost fanatical about the way he stares at her, the second she actually steps back.  “You’ve _never_ been good enough for her.  When a woman like Mayor Mills notices you, you devote your _life_ to her, but you--you’ve always taken her for granted, and I am _not_ alone in thinking that she needed to be confronted with the truth.”  
  
“The _truth_?  The truth of your _made up,_ bullshit pictures, you mean,” Emma says, before laughing wryly.  “Well, I’ve got news for you, buddy--”  
  
“ _No_.  The truth that you’re nothing but a _waste_.  That she’s wasted years of her life on you, and for what?”  Sidney’s almost glassy eyes turn to Regina, and immediately shift to mournful.  “You could do anything, be with anyone, Madam Mayor, and you are blinded to your potential because this _cheap filly_ has--”  
  
The slap is unexpected, mostly in the sense that it doesn’t come from Emma; but Sidney’s cheek blooms red and Regina’s hand is positively vibrating in the air.    
  
Sidney touches his face in sheer disbelief and then says, “ _Regina_ \--all I’ve ever wanted is--”  
  
“ _Get out_ of my office,” Regina says, in that falsely calm tone of voice that suggests she’s ready to blow up at any second now and _will_ be taken prisoners.  “Get out, and get ready to have charges filed against you in the morning.  I wouldn’t count on Kathryn Nolan’s willingness to defend you, either, so you might wish to spend the rest of the day considering your options.  You won’t have many left by the time I’m done making a few phone calls.”  
  
Emma rubs her knuckles against her jeans, because there isn’t anything left to do to the shell of a man in front of them.  Sure, they can try to press charges, and they’d probably stick, but prison won’t hurt Sidney Glass nearly as much as being completely rejected by a woman he’s pretty much devoted what little life he’s had to.  
  
This is Regina at her most efficiently ruthless, and for once, Emma doesn’t have the _slightest_ problem with seeing it.  
  
“ _Go,”_ Regina says, flatly, and Sidney scurries out of the office, nearly weeping as he turns to look at Regina one more time.  
  
As soon as the door closes behind him, Regina sags against her desk and presses her palms to her face.   
  
“Sorry I was right,” Emma says, after a moment, which gets her a broken little laugh, and then Regina just shakes her head.    
  
“I’m sorry, too, because--he would never have concocted this kind of plan on his own, and that means that we were _both_ right, dear.”  Regina takes a deep breath, and then lets her hands fall limply at her sides, before turning and looking back at the picture still displayed on her desktop monitor.  After a second, she says, “My mother adores Sidney, in the way she adores anyone that she can so very easily bend to her will.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says, rubbing at her forehead with her thumb.  “I was afraid you’d say that.”  
  
“A road trip, then, Deputy?” Regina asks, but a familiar tightness--of a kind Emma only knows to associate with Regina’s parents, and perhaps memories of Daniel’s death--has crept into her voice, and after a second Emma puts a hand on her shoulder and squeezes gently.  
  
“It’s official police business, Madam Mayor.  No need for you to come--”  
  
“Oh, don’t bother trying to spare me; I know what she’s like,” Regina says, in an even smaller voice, and Emma runs a hand through the ends of Regina’s hair, unsure of what else she can do to offer some small comfort.  
  
“Yeah, you know; but that doesn’t mean that you have to be _there_ for it.”  
  
“Emma--”  
  
“You have a campaign to focus on right now; you should be here, making sure you get re-elected and we’re not stuck with _Gold_ for the next four years, so--you focus on your campaign, and I’ll deal with your mother.   _Trust_ me, to take care of this.”  
  
Regina sort of sighs, and then finally just looks at her and says, “And what if she admits that this was all her idea?  What then?”  
  
“Well, maybe then we stop having her over for Christmas, and think long and hard about how family isn’t just something you’re born into, but it’s also something you can _make_ ,” Emma says, as gently as she can, before resting her chin on Regina’s shoulder.  
  
After a second, Regina straightens a little again; conversation over, Emma thinks, stepping back.  “All right.  I’ll e-mail you her address.  When will you--”  
  
“Soon,” Emma says, and then resists the urge to shudder.  “As soon as possible.”


	20. Chapter 20

December is clogged with snow, wet, cold, _miserable_.  
  
It’s hard to think of more perfect weather for her to see her mother-in-law, even if on the drive over to New Haven it seems like the Bug is going to crap out for good about sixty separate times.  Regina offered the Mercedes, in the e-mail with directions, but then seemed to realize about half an hour later that that would mean _she’d_ have to drive the Bug and rescinded the offer.  
  
They’re in a pretty good place if all that does is make Emma roll her eyes.  
  
Even on the interstate, it’s taking its sweet goddamned time to get down south, and with every added minute she feels both more anger and more trepidation.  
  
The thing about Cora Mills is that she’s basically just a shrew, but the _other_ thing about Cora Mills is that no matter what Regina might like to pretend, or say, she’s also got the unerring ability to punch her daughter right where it hurts, over and over again.  
  
Sometimes, Emma’s a little bitter about the lack of parents in her life, but then she looks at the alternative and realizes that, no.  It’s all a crapshoot, and the only thing that she can say for sure is that she lucked out with a few good friends, after all this time.  
  
People generally are just out to screw each other, and it’s on that wonderful note that she pulls over at an IHOP right outside of New Haven and increases her sugar intake by a million to make sure that she’s at least sharp and alert for this confrontation.  
  
…  
  
Her first meeting with Cora had been...  
  
Regina’s interest in her had been referred to as “very _vogue_ ”, whatever the fuck that meant; after that, she’d more or less been dismissed, despite actually trying to engage the woman in a conversation.  
  
Example:  
  
“So what is it you do, Mrs. Mills?”  
  
“I’m in the fine arts.  Speaking of the arts, Regina, do you remember Reginald Burroughs?  You _must_.  Well, his oldest son, Nathaniel, is--”  
  
Seriously.   _Right in front of her_.  
  
To Regina’s credit, she’d not really stood for it, but short of booting the woman out of their house there just wasn’t anything to be done to stop her.  She only comes by once a year, just in time to ruin Christmas for Henry by pointing out to him that _toys_ are for _boys_ and he needs to think about becoming a real _man_ now.  When she’s done making a child cry, her attention tends to head towards Regina and when _she’s_ going to start taking her life more seriously... until mommy dearest has had a few glasses of wine, at which point the claws _really_ come out.  
  
The idea that Regina is anyone’s definition of a failure is so preposterous that it made Emma laugh, the first time, which was akin to waving a slab of raw meat in front of a tiger’s face.  
  
 _She’d_ cried.  Not in front of Cora, of course, because that four-letter-word of a woman didn’t deserve that kind of reaction, but she’d snuck off to Henry’s bedroom and had a good silent cry there because, well, Cora wasn’t exactly wrong.  
  
Regina’s college-educated, smart, driven, accomplished, and well-off.  Emma is and was Emma; a dalliance, a charity project, whatever the hell else Cora had called her.  She’s blocked it from her mind, for the most part, because it wasn’t the first time she’s been told it and it wouldn’t turn out to be the last either.  
  
Her skin’s thick enough to handle it, and there’s always been something sweetly reassuring about the ferocity with which Regina fucks her right after her mother’s been by for a visit, but yeah.  
  
If she never sees the woman again, it’ll still be far too late to undo all the damage she’s caused, over the years, and when Emma says that, she’s _really_ not thinking of her own occasional moments of self-doubt and secret crying.  
  
…  
  
She knocks, hard, battering the black door--a thorny wreath wrapped around the number 66--until she can hear the approaching footsteps, and then takes a step back and makes sure her badge is visible.  
  
It’s not _much_ , but she’s got a little bit of power in this conversation now.  
  
When the door swings open, a piano concerto filters through the background and Emma immediately recognizes it; it’s one Regina only listens to on particularly bad days, locking herself in her study for a few hours to regroup before she manages the better part of her personality again for Henry’s sake.  She’s intruded on that private time exactly once; _never_ again.  
  
The surprise at seeing her that registers on Cora’s face, when she steps into view, is the first point she scores, and she smiles thinly as Cora’s eyebrows slowly climb up her face.  
  
“ _Miss Swan_ ,” she then says.  
  
The difference between how Regina calls her that and how her mother does is astonishing, really, given that it’s only two words.  Regina manages to use it as a shorthand for _shut up and take off your pants,_ where coming from Cora, it’s hard to feel as if she’s anything more than a slug, smushed under the sole of a grinding shoe.  
  
“Yeah, hi,” she responds, before tapping her fingers at her badge.  “This isn’t a social call; I have a few questions about an ongoing investigation in Storybrooke.”  
  
“In Storybrooke?  And you think I’m--” Cora starts to ask, just about managing to not laugh at her outright.  
  
Emma clamps her jaws together and then pointedly looks at the door.  “Maybe we can take this inside.”  
  
“Of course,” Cora says, because no matter what else you want to say about the woman, she has impeccable manners that she’s drilled into Regina as well.  Emma remembers a time in her life when she had no idea what a dessert fork was other than _the small one_ , for instance, but it’s been a while.  
  
She resists the urge to take her shoes off, even though this is clearly that kind of house, because she’s here on _business_ and the small height advantage she has over Cora can only help.  
  
“Can I get you something to drink?  A fruit juice, perhaps?” Cora asks, closing the door behind her.  
  
The hallway is painted a dark burgundy, so overwhelming that it feels as if she’s stepped _inside_ of a heart; it’s contrasted with light pinks and whites, and the whole thing feels like a Hallmark valentine gone sinister.  Emma resists a shudder, barely, and then makes a mental note to compliment Regina on her taste when she gets back.  
  
At least it’s not _this_.  
  
“I’m fine,” she says, adding a mumbled, “Thanks.”  
  
Cora folds her hands together in front of her, looking like a pin-up of a mother from a 1960s magazine article on _the role of the woman in the household,_ and then says, “I see my daughter has given you a job.”  
  
“Actually, no, the sheriff did,” Emma counters, letting her mouth twist up a in a way that’s a little ugly.  “Believe it or not, after nearly a decade of detective work I’m maybe a little qualified to work in law enforcement.”  
  
Cora smiles at her.  “Yes, of course; you _are_ very personally acquainted with the law.  I’m surprised that having an arrest record isn’t an impediment to--”  
  
“Mrs. Mills, with all due respect, I wouldn’t have the badge if I wasn’t allowed to have it,” Emma cuts her off, before glancing around the foyer again.  “Now, if we can just have a quick chat about this investigation I’m carrying out, I’ll be out of your hair.”  
  
Cora inclines her head and then gestures towards a door; the sitting room is thankfully decorated in a less ornate and _gross_ way, with soft creams and accented browns providing most of the color scheme, but Emma still feels like if she actually sits down on the leather sofa, Cora will find a way to get it to _eat_ her.  
  
She leans against the side of it and watches as Cora moves around to a comfortable chair by the window, where some needlepoint is waiting for her to return to it.  
  
“I’m truly not sure how you think I could have _anything_ to do with a crime perpetrated in Storybrooke, since it’s been almost twelve months since I was last there,” Cora says, smoothing out her black dress and then sitting down, crossing her legs in a way that somehow comes across as threatening.  
  
“Oh, we didn’t think you perpetrated it,” Emma says, sitting down after a few seconds anyway.  “We think you got someone _else_ to--”  
  
“Who is this _we_?” Cora asks, a little pointedly.  
  
Emma smiles after a moment.  “My wife and I.”  
  
“Your … _wife_ ,” Cora repeats, before leaning back in the chair and assessing her openly.  “The one whose house you moved out of?”  
  
“You’re a little behind on your news, Mrs. Mills.  I moved back in.”  
  
“I see,” Cora says, but the displeasure is clear on her face.  “Back, and still determined as ever to turn my daughter against me.”  
  
To her own surprise, Emma laughs a little, before shaking her head.  “Lady, you’re doing a fine job of alienating Regina all on your own; maybe stop criticizing every life choice she’s made in the last ten years and she’d be a little _happier_ about you coming to visit.”  
  
The pleasant veneer of Cora’s demeanor cracks and falls away, and there is something incredibly cold about the way she says, “If you had even the slightest instincts about _motherhood_ , Miss Swan, you’d understand that whether or not my daughter is _happy_ with me is very much secondary to whether or not she is squandering her potential--”  
  
“On me,” Emma says, rolling her eyes.  “Yeah, I know; but you know what?  I’m not going anywhere.  She picked _me_ , Mrs. Mills.  She will continue to pick me, no matter how many pictures you get Sidney to take of me doing basically _nothing_ \--”  
  
“Pictures?” Cora asks, so innocently that Emma pauses unwillingly.  “What _pictures_?”  
  
A clock ticks on the wall over the mantle, and Emma narrows her eyes a little.  “You know what I’m talking about.”  
  
“Miss Swan, if your only purpose in this visit is to accuse me of doing something that I quite obviously have _no_ awareness of--”  
  
“What did you think you were going to accomplish?” Emma asks, watching as Cora tenses, as if preparing to strike.  “Did you _really_ think that sending her a few fuzzy shots of me talking to some stranger in a bar or by a motel would get her to throw me out?  That that would somehow _undo_ our relationship?”  
  
“Your _relationship,_ ” Cora scoffs.  “All she needed was a childminder, after dear Daniel’s unfortunate passing and the disappearance of that other girl.  Her interest in you has always been rooted in the fact that _Henry_ favors your company; possibly because you’re little more than a child yourself.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes.  “I’m barely six years younger than she is--”  
  
“Oh, trust me, darling; your _age_ is the least of the reasons why she would be better off without you,” Cora says, sharp enough for it to actually feel like a physical slap.  “Do you have any idea how much it _pains_ me, to see her throw away everything she worked so hard for as a girl, over someone like you?  Her degree--her _future_... all of it is now tied up in that godforsaken town.  She has no ambition for the state legislature, let alone beyond that.  All she _wants_ is to be sure that you aren’t going to die on her the way that her last infatuation did.”  
  
For one moment, and purely from the amount of dismissive venom in Cora’s voice, Emma actually entertains the notion that Cora got rid of Daniel and will now find a way to get rid of her--but no, it’s ridiculous to think.  The woman is a manipulative harpy, not a _murderer_.  
  
“Why did you continue sending the pictures?” she asks, after a few seconds.  
  
Cora picks up her needlepoint again and starts plucking at it with short stabbing motions.  “As I said, Miss Swan, I have no idea what you are--”  
  
“I mean, it had to be clear to you at some point that she was just ignoring them, wasn’t going to kick me out over them.  So why keep _sending_ them?”  
  
“I must be vastly overestimating your intelligence, given that a simple _I don’t know what you mean_ isn’t having any effect on your methods of questioning,” Cora says, with a small sneer.  “Really, Miss Swan--this trip of yours was a waste, and--”  
  
“You get off on knowing that you’re hurting her, don’t you,” Emma states, as flatly as she can.  
  
It gets a reaction out of Cora, who looks at her with such loathing that Emma reminds herself that she’s wearing a gun and in any event, can probably beat a sixty year old woman to her car, if she really has to.  
  
“How _dare you_ \--”  
  
“No, seriously.  You get off on knowing that you’re basically making sure that _unless_ she does exactly what you want her to, she’ll never be happy.  Because you won’t _let_ her be.  What was it with Daniel?  I’m sure he didn’t cheat on her, didn’t have the kind of job I did where you could--set the scene, so to say.  So what, you sent her off to college, halfway across the country?  You tried to get him fired?”  
  
“Regina’s future has always been my number one priority, as it should be _any_ mother’s,” Cora responds, but her voice is starting to creep with a little tightness, and Emma leans forward towards it on instinct.  “The choices I have made for my daughter--”  
  
“She went along with them for a while, and then she married the guy anyway.  Sucks, huh.”  
  
The way that Cora’s lips squeeze together and that needle slams back into the fabric is almost amusing; almost, because the sight of it eats at Emma and explains more about Regina than three years of living with her ever could.  
  
“Regina fancied herself in _love_ , darling.  She grew up out of that silly sentiment rather quickly when that awful accident happened, and you’ll find her significantly more practical in her affections these days.”  A cruel smile follows the statement.  “I would be _very_ surprised to learn that she dotes on you the way she did him; writing him long, winding letters about the endlessness of their love while away at school.  They were _very_ embarrassing, and I’m sure she’ll be grateful to learn that I managed to intercept most of them.”  
  
It’s hard to decide whether she wants to laugh or just punch Cora in the teeth.  Sure, the idea of Regina writing love letters is fucking _ridiculous_ now, but it’s only ridiculous because--  
  
“You don’t know the first thing about our marriage,” Emma says, finding that even if she can’t really figure out _how_ , she wants to defend the Regina she’s with; needs to somehow make her out as being exactly as _whole_ as she needs to be.  
  
“Well, I know it’s not legally _binding,_ at which point there isn’t a whole lot else _to_ know,” Cora says, lightly, before holding her needlepoint to the light.  “It’s perhaps taken longer than I thought it would, but she did see the light, eventually.  She will again.”  
  
Emma smiles after a few seconds.  “Sidney has no idea what actually happened, and neither do you.  So that’s--what, three wasted years of paying some guy to stalk me, right there.”  
  
“If she reconsidered her life choices even for a _second_ , darling, I wouldn’t say there was anything wasted in--well, whatever motivated her to end your relationship.  Even if it didn’t stick just yet.”  
  
“Sidney _will_ give you up if she asks nicely; you do realize that, right?”  
  
Cora looks over with vague amusement.  “The word of an impotent little man in love with her, versus the utter lack of actual evidence.  I’m not sure what version of the law you think you’re hiding behind here, Miss Swan, but you’ll find that I’m not intimidated by whatever fiction you’ve concocted in your mind.”  
  
“Oh, I’m sure you’re not intimidated by me.  I don’t need you to be intimidated by me,” Emma says, before getting to her feet again and walking a few steps closer to Cora.  “I just need you to stay the hell away from us.  Your _plan_ to split us up didn’t work; all it did was screw with Henry, and if there’s one thing I don’t tolerate--”  
  
Cora laughs, softly.  “Well.  Look at _you_ , standing up for a child that’s not even your own.”  
  
“Oh, he’s mine, Cora; he’s mine much more than he’ll ever be your _grandson_.  If it was up to me, you’d never see him again.”  
  
The way light catches Cora’s eyes, they’re almost glowing red.  “But, darling Emma--it’s _not_ up to you.  It’s up to Regina, and you’ll find that no matter how much you try to poison her mind against me--she will _never_ turn on me.”  
  
Emma smiles faintly.  “Really?  The way I figure, one comment from me and she’ll be on the phone to you next, telling you to make alternative arrangements for Christmas.”  
  
This time, the angered shock isn’t real, and Cora pushes up out of the chair.  “You have no idea what you’re talking about, Miss Swan.  My daughter would _never_ \--”  
  
“No, _you_ have no idea what you’re talking about.  A good mother wouldn’t try to destroy her daughter’s life just because... whatever you want to call it; because she’s not ambitious enough?  Because I’m not first lady material?  Jesus, you are one _twisted_ piece of work if you actually think that she’d be happier on her own and in some high office somewhere than--”  
  
“Oh, she wouldn’t be; not immediately,” Cora says, taking a measured step forward, until she’s right up in Emma’s space.  “I’m sure she finds your attention flattering; that there is an element of thrill-seeking in her attachment to you that I cannot relate to, but I can _see_ that it’s there.  You’re the most unconventional rebellion my daughter has ever attempted, Miss Swan, but--eventually, she always has done the _right_ thing.  You may be here for now, but if you’re honest with yourself, you know you won’t last.  There will come a point when she lets go of the grief that has kept her in Storybrooke, and after that... well.”  Cora pauses, licking her lips slowly, and then reaches for her upper arm almost gently.  “Do yourself a favor, Emma, dear.  Stop trying to hold on; we both know you _can’t_.”  
  
Emma shrugs her hand off, and then stares back at her darkly, a sickening knot climbing up her stomach.  “You need to back off.  Screw with my family again and--”  
  
“And you’ll what?” Cora asks, almost pleasantly.  
  
“I swear, _don’t_ try me,” Emma snaps, watching as Cora’s smile just grows.  
  
There isn’t anything else to say; she’s made her point, and Cora ate it up whole before spitting it back out, and so she turns on her heels and heading out of the house as quickly as she can.  Her dignity’s slinking around somewhere in that sickeningly red-pink foyer, and she knows she’s not getting it back.  
  
She’s almost hyperventilating by the time she gets to the car, and then leans her forehead against the top of the Bug, sucking in as much air as she can.  God, she knows she’s right, but she’s leaving with less than she came with; just the sickening feeling that she’s now baited a tiger, and Cora’s going to come at them so much harder than she did before now, using Sidney as the hapless middle man and resorting only to _insinuations_.  
  
She closes her eyes and tries not to think that Regina was _right_ to tell her not to do this, not to drag out this confrontation.  
  
No matter how wrong Cora is about most things, the part where she’s always considered Emma nothing more than a grade-A fuck-up is the one that she’s never really been able to forget after her mother-in-law’s yearly visits; it’s the one thing Cora’s implied that has felt like it might actually be true, and it takes Emma a long few minutes to start ignoring the bilious build-up in her stomach and sit down behind the wheel again.  
  
The drive back is going to be endless reminders of what she could’ve done differently, even if none of those scenarios actually result in her walking away from Cora with a confession.    
  
…  
  
As soon as she drives past the town sign, she realizes that she has no intention of going back to Mary Margaret’s, but also needs clothes if she’s going to head over to Regina’s, and ends up just stopping right next to the sign and taking a good five minutes to calm down enough to actually tell anyone _else_ about the multiple ways in which her trip to New Haven accomplished nothing at all.  
  
In the end, she turns the engine on again and drives over to the liquor store, where she ends up waiting in line behind Leroy, who looks at her with enough understanding for her to almost leave again without actually getting any booze.  
  
Not like she needs any.  Regina is always stacked, but--  
  
She sighs, and gets a bottle of bourbon and a bottle of Coke she probably won’t mix it with, and then stops outside of the store again, as Leroy takes a pull from a brown bag and looks at her with something akin to pity.  
  
“What?” she asks, somewhat protectively clutching the alcohol to her chest; like he’s going to knock her over and steal it.  It’s been a ridiculous day, and after a second she lets the bag dangle down by her side.  
  
“If it’s true, she’s a dumb bitch,” he tells her, wiping past his mouth with his sleeve.  
  
“I’m--sorry, what?” Emma asks, resisting the urge to step in closer for an inaccurate whiff test of his blood alcohol level.  “Who is?”  
  
“The mayor,” he says, with a sniff.  “Those posters--sister, you don’t need to put up with that.  I see why you moved out now, but--”  
  
“What _posters,_ Leroy?’ she asks.  
  
He blinks at her muddily a few times and then gestures towards city hall.  “They’re all over.  You haven’t seen them?  Mary Margaret Blanchard’s been running around all day pulling them down but Gold just keeps putting them back up--”  
  
She almost drops the bottle and then sucks in a deep breath.  “What are they of?”  
  
“The Mayor. The Sheriff,” he says, absently.  “Someone spray-painted _tramp_ on her car earlier today.  Pretty sure that if the sheriff catches them, they’ll be in my cell tonight.”  
  
Okay.  She will _not_ be reduced to tears in front of the local booze shop while talking to the town drunk about how her wife is a cheating bitch, because this day has pretty much already hit the lowest low it can, and so she counts to five and then just says, “It’s just Gold trying to--fight dirty, I guess.  It’s not true.”  
  
Leroy looks at her silently for a few seconds, and then leans in closer, a wash of gin on his breath and says, “Better work on that, sister, if you’re going to stand by her.  You’re not fooling anyone with eyes that sad.”  
  
He wanders off towards the park, a moment later, and she stares at the city hall before deciding that, no, she really doesn’t have the energy to deal with this tonight.  
  
…  
  
Regina looks ready to kill someone, when she opens the door.  
  
“Please don’t,” Emma just says, which sort of deflates whatever torrent of rage is about to be unleashed on her.  “I have had the _longest_ day--”  
  
“Yes, you and I both,” Regina says, shortly, before glancing at the car in the driveway and the _artwork_ scribbled on the side of it.  “How was New Haven?”  
  
“Your mother’s a bitch,” Emma says, kicking off her boots and then wandering over to the kitchen; Regina tolerates a lot of her most collegiate habits, but drinking straight from the bottle is pushing it, even on a miserable day.  “She didn’t cop to it, but it was pretty clear that she doesn’t care even if Sidney does give her up after you bat your eyelashes at him a few times.  She just wants me gone, and you on a path to being the next Hillary Clinton.  Whatever the cost.”  
  
“What did she _say?_ ” Regina demands, following her and getting out two tall glasses, which--yeah, they’ve apparently had equally bad days.  
  
“The usual,” Emma admits.  “Then I kind of told her to go to hell and to stay away from us and she just laughed at me.  Said you’d never go for it.”  The first drink goes down in basically one swallow and then she lowers the glass back to the table.  “Which, I mean, I don’t know.  She’s your mother, I can’t tell you what to do.”  
  
Regina looks drained, and ends up just sitting down on a kitchen chair, picking at the label on the bottle for a few moments and then pouring herself a half glass as well.  “Family is difficult,” she finally says, nursing the drink briefly and then gingerly swallowing some of it with a grimace.  
  
“Yeah, it is,” Emma agrees, moving around the table and leaning against it next to Regina.  “But when I think family, I think you and Henry; not _her_.  Not someone who doesn’t care at all if you’re happy or not--”  
  
“She does, is the thing,” Regina says, quietly.  “Her version of happiness just isn’t yours.”  
  
“Is it _yours_?” Emma asks, with a frown.  “Because if you want to run for state senate or whatever--it’s not like I’d stop you.  Storybrooke is just a _place_ , Regina, we can go wherever you want to.”  
  
Regina finishes her drink, putting the glass down on the table almost hesitantly, and then shakes her head.  “I’ve never had any real political ambitions; that’s all her.  She used to think I’d marry my way up the Hill.  That I’d get over Daniel, if exposed to enough important, wealthy and powerful men.  She still does, it seems.”  
  
Emma watches her for a few seconds and then reaches out, tucks a strand of hair behind Regina’s right ear.  “Look, Henry’s at an age where he’s actually going to start picking up on the fact that she’s not exactly a nice person soon and--well, he has enough crap running through his mind about good and evil to add _this_ to the mix.  Mothers are supposed to love their kids, you know.  It’s the one thing he’s never even really doubted about you.”  
  
Regina’s eyes shutter for a few seconds and then she says, “I’ll make the call tomorrow.”  
  
“What are we doing about those posters?”  
  
Regina exhales audibly and then shrugs.  “We can either perjure ourselves and attempt to claim it’s a lie, that it’s slander, or we can admit that it’s the truth and deal with the consequences.”  
  
“I’m going to guess option A holds the most appeal for you.”  
  
There’s something worrying about the way Regina just leans forward, bracing her elbows on the table and burying her face in her hands.  “It would, if this didn’t also affect you and Henry.”  
  
“Regina, admitting you cheated on me--”  
  
“Yes. It’ll make me the villain he’s already cast me at, so I hardly see how it’ll change how he views me.”  
  
Emma leans on the table heavily enough for it to abruptly shift backwards, and then reaches for Regina’s shoulder.  “What will it do to your campaign, to admit it?”  
  
“It’s a quaint, traditional town.”  Regina shrugs after a moment.  “I think it largely depends on how we spin it.  How _you_ spin it.”  
  
“I don’t... really know if I want to be talking about this to the general public.  I mean, I don’t know if I _can_ make it out like it’s something that’s okay or--whatever it is you’d need me to say.”  
  
Regina looks up at her with a wry smile.  “Dear, if we go down that path, you’d need to stress that it’s absolutely not okay, but forgiveness is a fundamental part of any functional relationship, and we’re doing better now than we were before.”  
  
They look at each other for a few moments, and then Emma smiles.  “The truth in politics.  Jesus, it’s like the end of the world is coming.”  
  
“Hmm,” Regina just says, before sitting back again and gesturing for the bottle.  “More?”  
  
“No, I’m too tired.  I just--want a shower, maybe, and then--”  
  
“The guest bedroom is made,” Regina says, so composed that Emma rolls her eyes a little.  
  
“I know it is, it’s _always_ made, but--this is getting ridiculous, now.”  
  
“What is?”  
  
Emma exhales, running a hand through her hair.  “I can’t get up on a stage and tell the entire town that we’re _fine_ if any part of it is a lie.  We’re either fine or we’re not, and if we’re fine, we sleep in the same bed.  I move back in, Henry gets told the truth by us before he finds out from anyone else, and we just--work on it.  Every fucking day.”  
  
Regina’s mouth works silently for a few seconds, and then she says, “I don’t think I’ve slept through the night since you moved out.  That bed is...”  
  
“Yeah, I know,” Emma says, pushing away from the table and holding out her hand.  “Maybe if we’re both in it again, it’ll go back to just being a _bed_ , you know?”  
  
Regina nods, faintly and barely visible, but then accepts the hand that’s being held out.  
  
…  
  
It’s unclear how long they’ve both been staring at the ceiling, but then Emma sighs loud enough for Regina to stir and look at her, and she shifts until they’re facing each other.  
  
“What do we do about Gold?”  
  
Regina’s mouth purses slowly, but then she just sighs.  “I’m not sure that’s a question you’d like me to answer.  Believe me, there is _plenty_ I can do, but if I make this as personal as he is attempting to, you and Henry might as well paint targets on your backs.”  
  
Emma nods and goes back to looking at the ceiling, shadows of the apple tree’s branches playing overhead in the moonlight.  “He’s not a good person, is he.”  
  
“I’m hardly one to cast judgment, but no, he’s not.”  
  
“And he’ll be really bad news for this town,” Emma says, glancing over again.  “Unlike you.  Your methods aren’t exactly … clean, but you’ve never done anything to hurt Storybrooke.  Have you?”  
  
“I don’t think so, no,” Regina says, which is both kind of ridiculous and so honest that Emma doesn’t have it in her to protest the ambiguity of the answer.  
  
“So you have to win,” she just says, after a few seconds of unearthly quiet.  
  
“Where are you taking this, dear?”  
  
Emma rubs at her face for a few seconds and then sighs.  “If nobody else is going to play nice, then I’m not going to ask that you do, either.  We tell the truth--but whatever dirt you have on Gold, I think he’s invited you to put it on display now.”  
  
Regina says nothing, for a few long moments, and then shifts until she’s fully on her side, almost hovering over Emma.  
  
“What?”  
  
“Not too long ago, you would’ve insisted that I do this the _right_ way,” Regina says, studying her closely.  “What’s changed?  Is this about--”  
  
She doesn’t have to finish the sentence, and after a second Emma shakes her head.  “No.  It’s just--I guess I didn’t want to see how low some people will go just to screw with other people, but some things, you just can’t …”  She shrugs, and then looks at Regina openly, worrying her lip between her teeth.  “I’m sorry your mother’s such a shrew.”  
  
“As am I,” Regina says, which is the first time she’s actually admitted it, and Emma reaches for her hand instinctively.  “You shouldn’t have gone to talk to her.  All she ever does--”  
  
“I know,” Emma says, and then sighs.  “But she screwed with all of us, and I mean, I wouldn’t be much of a white knight if I didn’t at least try to go over there to kick her ass, would I?”  
  
Regina smiles, in a way that’s both obvious and mostly hidden, and then sobers quietly.  “Henry will never look at me the same way again, will he.”  
  
“He’s growing up, Regina.  Whatever he thinks of us, it’ll probably change no matter what we do, and all we can do is let him know that we’re doing the best we can.  That we’re never going to be perfect, and that nobody expects him to be, either.”  
  
It earns her a quiet nod, and after a second Emma reaches for the back of Regina’s neck, rubbing there gently.  
  
“He wants us _together_ more than he wants to be _right_.  Trust me on that.”  
  
Regina doesn’t respond in words; just lowers her head and kisses her, in a way that seems a little desperate and hopeful all at once, and then settles her head on Emma’s shoulder, eyes closing with intent this time.  
  
After a few moments of listening to Regina’s quiet breathing, Emma feels herself start to drift as well; and when she dreams, it’s of apple trees growing all around them, roots digging down into the earth deep enough to lift up the concrete of the town’s streets.  
  
…  
  
Henry looks elated when she’s there for breakfast in the morning, unexpectedly, and it feels almost like pouring a bucket of water over him to sit him down for what has to be a conversation he’s in no way ready to have.  
  
Regina can’t really hide the way her hands are shaking, and Emma finally realizes that she’s going to have to take point on this one when all Regina says is, “Don’t forget to drink your juice, dear.”  
  
He does, grudgingly, still looking back and forth between them like Christmas came a few weeks early, and Emma takes a deep breath and tries not to think that she’s basically just the asshole about to tell him that Santa is actually that guy who runs the hardware store on Madison.  
  
“We need to talk to you about something,” she just blurts out, because there isn’t really any dignified way to tell a ten year old about any of this.  
  
He looks wary immediately, hair-trigger on account of fairy tales even after a good few months of therapy, and says, “What is it?”  
  
“Well, there’s two parts.  The first is that … I’m moving back in, soon, and the second part is that …”  
  
Christ, his hopeful little face is enough to make her feel like she’s _just_ walked in on Regina and Graham all over again; it’s a suckerpunch straight to the gut, to have to douse out all the joy she’s just delivered.  Regina seems to realize as much, though, and reaches for her hand, anchoring her in place with an iron grip.  
  
Maybe they’ll get through this together after all.  
  
“The rest of it is about why Emma moved out,” Regina says, tremulously.  
  
Henry flashes between curiosity and concern, and then just pulls his chair closer to the table and says, “Are you finally going to tell me what the really bad thing you did is?”  
  
“Yes,” Regina says, before Emma can protest that description; and when the word is out there, there’s no taking it back.  
  
“ _I knew it._ I knew there was something!” Henry says, with this abrupt bullishness, as if all of his worst dreams are coming true but all he can feel is victorious.  
  
“Oh my God, Henry--stop,” Emma says, and it’s with enough tired sadness that Henry shuts up.  “It’s not at all what you think, okay?  Your mom isn’t evil.  She’s _not_ an evil queen, she didn’t take anyone’s heart, but she did do a not so nice thing with Sheriff Humbert and people are going to be talking about it, so we thought you should hear the truth from us.”  
  
He stops cold in his tracks and then looks at them both like he both needs to and doesn’t want to know more.  “What did she do?” he then asks, nervously, looking at Emma.  “Was it a spell or--”  
  
“I had an affair, Henry,” Regina says; it’s in that voice that radiates power and calm outward, but that Emma knows comes from a place of so much hurt and loss that to her, it just sounds like someone breaking.  “Do you know what that means?”  
  
He looks at her in such shock that Emma grips Regina’s fingers tighter, almost squeezing them off at this rate; Regina doesn’t budge and just quietly looks back at her son.  
  
“You mean--like cheating?” he then asks, sounding younger than he is for the first time in ages.  
  
“Do you know what cheating is?” Emma checks.  
  
After a second, he lowers his eyes to his eggs and then says, “It’s--it’s what Miss Blanchard and Mr. Nolan were doing to Mrs. Nolan, isn’t it.”  
  
Regina stiffens next to her, because of _course_ being compared to Mary Margaret is worse than having a ten year old kid who barely needs any explanation of what adultery is, and Emma fights an urge to roll her eyes, instead focusing on the emotions playing out on Henry’s face.  “Yeah, it’s kind of like that.  It’s when adults are with people other than the ones they’re supposed to be with.”  
  
“Why would you be with someone who isn’t Emma?” Henry asks; and this time it’s directed at Regina, whose face washes out completely at the question.  
  
To her credit, she doesn’t blow him off with an _it’s hard to explain_ or _you’re too young_.  She just reaches for her eyes and pushes her hair out of them, and then says, “Because I wasn’t happy.  We were having problems, Emma and I were, and I was unhappy and I made a terrible mistake.”  
  
“What kind of problems?” Henry now asks, looking abruptly worried.  
  
“We had difficulties communicating.  After... your father died, I found it very hard to talk about certain things--”  
  
“Like him, right?  We never talk about him.”  
  
Emma has to fight to stop herself from reacting to that, but Regina just nods.  “Like him.  But not just him.  I was--very sad, for a very long time, and it wasn’t something I could talk about.  You don’t need to know the details, dear, but Emma and I didn’t understand each other very well at all, and then--”  
  
She lowers her eyes to the table and stops talking, and Henry looks Emma for further explanation.    
  
“I was really angry when I found out what your mom did, and I left to try to figure out if this was--well, remember when Nicholas broke your Iron Man action figure?”  
  
“Yes,” Henry says, darkly enough that Regina’s thumb brushes over her hand in shared, silent amusement.  
  
“And you weren’t sure if you were ever going to talk to him again?”  
  
Henry nods, and then sighs in a way that’s too deep for his years.  “So that’s what you were doing.  You were trying to see if you were going to talk to Mom again.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma says.  “She didn’t--she didn’t want me to go, but I didn’t want to stay unless I was sure that us being together was the right thing.  That we could get _better_ at talking to each other.”  
  
“And you _are_ getting better,” Henry says, emphatically.  “ _Right_?”  
  
“Yes, absolutely,” Regina says, and something in Henry’s face changes a little at this open admission of feeling; as if they’re crossing over into the territory of _Daniel_ now, whose story was contained to photo albums, where all the pictures suggested that things were _perfect_.  “We’re both trying, and there is no one else I’d rather be with.”  
  
“Of course not.  Emma’s the white knight, so--I guess that’s even better than a _king_ ,” Henry says, after a few moments, but it’s almost gentle and directed exclusively at Regina.  
  
Emma snorts a little, despite herself.  “I don’t know about that--”  
  
“So--you really didn’t do anything--with magic?” Henry cuts her off, looking at Regina with just the barest hint of suspicion.  
  
“No, dear, I really didn’t.  I don’t have any magic.  The only power I have is over the town budget,” she says, and he sort of squints at her, but as she stares back evenly, he eventually just nods, internal lie detector satisfied somehow.  
  
Emma shift in her seat a little and then says, “The thing is, kid, people are going to be talking about this because Mr. Gold wants to make your mom look bad for the election and--we want you to know that _this_ is the truth, okay?  We’re back together, and I love your mom and she loves me.  We had a rough time for a while there, but we’re good now.”  
  
He nods, and they both sit and stare at him for a few moments, waiting for the eventual explosion about his mother being an awful human being, but he just pushes what’s left of his eggs around on his plate and then says, “I’m still really mad about Iron Man and I’m never letting Nicholas touch any of my action figures again, but I guess we’re friends again now.  So I get it.”  
  
Regina tries to hide the relieved breath she lets go of, and Emma has to bite the inside of her cheek to not start laughing.  
  
“We’ll buy you a new Iron Man, dear,” Regina says, after a second, and there’s a vaguely suspicious sheen in her eyes at the way Henry just glances up and then smiles at her faintly.  
  
“For Christmas, right?”  
  
“Yeah.  For Christmas,” Emma agrees, because the world has to be a pretty wonderful place at ten years of age, where on the list of terrible shit adults can do to each other, cheating doesn’t even _rank_ compared to ripping out hearts and casting curses and anything else that he’s gotten from that book.  
  
She never thought she’d be grateful for it coming into their lives, but as Regina leans over and kisses her before saying, “I have to go; I have some posters to paper over and a car to get cleaned”, Emma briefly considers that maybe all of this was meant to happen.  
  
It’s ridiculous, of course; destiny is a thing that exists only in stories, but when Henry actually tolerates Regina ruffling his hair in passing and just grumbles, “ _Mom_ ”, without even the slightest hint of fear in his voice--  
  
It feels like they were supposed to end up right here all along.


	21. Chapter 21

When she gets back to Mary Margaret’s, a note has been left for her on the breakfast bar and just reads _All posters will be gone by the time you see this (hopefully!),_ which is both sweet and totally unnecessary.  It results in Emma staring at her suitcase for a few minutes, wondering  if she’s being the worst friend ever moving out again right before the holiday season.  
  
The reality is that Mary Margaret wouldn’t _want_ her to stay--but that doesn’t mean that she can’t make a few changes to the way Regina normally insists they do the holiday season and maybe have a few more people over.  As long as Mary Margaret doesn’t wear a cardigan, she should be relatively safe from harm, anyway.  
  
Packing takes her about as long as leaving had the first time, and there’s a nagging sense of regret about the idea that still, her life is just this movable object that doesn’t really stick to anything; at least, until she goes downstairs to the kitchen and sees the thermos that Mary Margaret used to hand her every morning and realizes that at least she’s starting to make marks, these days.  
  
When the door pulls shut behind her, it’s the end of her last attempt to make a break for it.  
  
Really, though, it just feels like a relief to dump her suitcase in the back of the Bug and drive it back to Regina’s.  
  
…  
  
What’s not so much of a relief is the look she gets when she stops by the diner for coffee around lunch time.  The look is more of a general _vibe_ , and it’s muted but present, even on Granny’s stoic face when she asks for two Americanos to go.  
  
Granny’s mouth sets after a second, and then she asks, “Who’s the second one for?”  
  
“Um,” Emma says, reaching for a few packets of sugar, before glancing back up and raising her eyebrows at Granny.  “Well, it’s for--”  
  
Ruby bustles by behind her grandmother and then gives a discreet kick to the shins, it seems, and says, “It’s none of our business, Gran, geez.”  
  
“Business is our business, and we don’t serve cheaters,” Granny says, just loud enough for everyone in the diner to be able to hear.    
  
A deadly silence falls.  On the other side of the room, Alan Whale clears his throat and one of the nuns crosses herself, before bowing back over a half-finished Sudoku.  
  
Emma sucks in a deep breath, whistling it past her teeth, and then says, “If you’re talking about those posters--”  
  
“They’re a load of crap, right, Em?   _Ow,_ ” Ruby says, when Granny elbows her sharply.  “I mean, you moved out because you had an argument about--”  
  
It’s too soon.  They haven’t talked strategy yet, and Emma feels like her teeth are going to come crumbling out of her mouth if she has to open it right now and come up with the right thing to say.  Politics isn’t her strong suit; diplomacy is what other people use to get results, but she’s more of a muscle first kind of girl.  
  
Short of decking anyone who believes whatever those posters said--  
  
The doorbell rings behind her, and she actually feels herself go a little weak in the knees in relief when Regina calmly says, “Oh, there you are, dear.”  
  
“Yes, here I am,” Emma says, before giving Granny a butter-wouldn’t-melt smile--or her best approximation of it, anyway--and saying, “The other coffee--it’s for my wife.”  
  
The laser beams coming out of Granny’s eyes are enough to make Regina’s eyebrows arch for a second, before she tugs her scarf loose and her gloves off, and just says, “Hello, Eugenia; I just had a delightful meeting with Marco, who--”  
  
Something odd happens to Granny’s face, and then with a huff she turns around and starts preparing their coffee.  Emma jolts when Regina reaches for her chin and then lays one on her in plain view of everyone present at the diner, and then just gapes stupidly as Regina sort of half-smiles at her and says, “Why don’t you go and find us a seat, hm, and I’ll place an order for your favorite.”  
  
“Yeah, that sounds--” Emma says, and then just looks away and heads for a booth without making eye-contact.  When Ruby stops by under the pretext of wiping down the counter and then bends down and says, “ _You’re welcome_ ; you looked like you were going to pass out--so is it true?”, Emma feels her heart stutter frantically all over again, but then just meets Ruby’s eyes and says, “It’s complicated.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“Ruby--it’s _complicated,_ but I love her,” Emma repeats.  
  
Ruby relaxes on the spot and then squeezes her shoulder and says, “I hope she knows how lucky she is.”  
  
“I do, dear,” Regina says, popping up like a devil behind Ruby, who nearly wipes all the condiments off the table surface in pure shock.  
  
“Yes, of course, um--Madam Mayor,” she then says, before hightailing it out of there.  
  
Regina slides down into the seat opposite Emma and faintly raises an eyebrow, as if to say, _you cool for now?_  
  
Emma shakes her head and then half-smiles.  “Am I getting a burger with curly fries?”  
  
“Henry’s not here, so I see no reason to forbid you from eating like a college student with budgetary shortcomings,” Regina just says, but it’s with enough affection for Emma to realize that really, the line between what Regina will do to force the idea that everything is fine down the town’s throat and what she actually _feels_ is probably closer together than it’s ever been before.  
  
It doesn’t make the staring and silent pity of everyone around her any easier to handle, but that will pass; the change in Regina seems more permanent, somehow, and that makes all the difference.  
  
…  
  
To her great surprise, Regina not only holds the door open for her when they leave but then also reaches for her hand when they start heading back towards city hall.  It’s unfamiliar enough for her to sort of fumble Regina’s hand for a few seconds, but then--glove to skin--they latch together well enough, and Emma looks at where they’re joined up and laughs a little sheepishly.  
  
“Too much?” Regina asks, before nodding at the proprietor of Game of Thorns in passing; without pause, he tips his hat to her and continues carrying buckets of roses inside, and Emma steps in a little closer to Regina at the realization that not _everyone_ will think she’s crazy for getting over what Regina did.  
  
“No, just... not something I thought we’d ever do,” Emma says, giving their hands a swing for emphasis.  It’s not dissimilar from how she used to walk places with Henry, actually, when he still had a penchant for taking off without looking both ways and didn’t think holding hands was _lame_.  
  
It’s not impossible that Regina misses those days much like she does, sometimes, and she curls her fingers a little more at the idea.  
  
“I’d like to have Mary Margaret over for Christmas.  Not the whole time, but part of it,” she then says.  
  
Yeah, it’s a little calculated; there are just enough people around on the streets, even with the cold, for Regina to not want to lose her shit completely, but it still takes Emma a good ten seconds to manage the nerve to actually look at her reaction.  
  
All she gets is a slightly pursed mouth, and then Regina says, “I was going to propose something similar for Kathryn, actually.  Unless she intends to spend it with her father and stepmother, but I’m unsure if she’s told them about her separation from David.  They will not be happy.”  
  
“Because … she’s getting a divorce?”  
  
“They’re very traditional,” Regina just says, in short, and then sighs a little.  “I’ve thought about this more, and--it’s possible you’re not entirely wrong.”  
  
Emma lifts her free hand to her heart and stops talking.  “I’m sorry--can I get that again?”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes and tugs her along, until they’re strolling past the library.  “Kathryn’s anger is with David.  As it should be.”  
  
“Mary Margaret isn’t--she told him no, for what it’s worth,” Emma adds, after a few seconds.  
  
Regina’s eyes turn hawkish for just a second, but then she nods.  “We’ll ask them both.  If not, I suppose we can have them over on different days--”  
  
“Yeah, I was thinking that--maybe I’d go over and have like Christmas lunch with David or something, so he doesn’t.... I don’t know,” Emma says.  
  
Regina looks over at her with an unreadable expression for a few seconds, and then just sourly says, “Perhaps we should just have _all_ of them over; it’ll lighten up the otherwise dull season.”  
  
Emma sighs, before spotting one of the few posters that Mary Margaret and Regina haven’t managed to yank down yet, and then lets their hands gently separate before walking over to it.  “Maybe I’m overestimating Gold, here, but I really doubt that the next few weeks will be _boring_.”  
  
Then, with a tug, the poster splits neatly in half, and she crumbles the half she was holding up and tosses it into a nearby garbage can, leaving only Regina plastered on the wall, looking proud and indefatigable.  
  
It’s a good image, even if Emma knows that it’s more of an act than the truth at this point.  
  
…  
  
Being near Graham is actually less awkward than being near anyone else, until they go _on the record_ with a formal statement about how she and Regina are ‘working through it’ or whatever they’re calling it publicly.  
  
It’s probably the fact that he’s done all the apologizing he can, and now they’re just stuck with the facts, where Regina once said that she was miserable and needed an escape from her marriage and he said, _okay_.  The facts are easier than everyone else’s assumptions, somehow, where it was some torrid romance that lasted for years; the assumptions make Emma out to be a fool, not just a casualty, and she’d rather just feel like she got slapped in the face than that she should’ve or could’ve seen it coming.  
  
Either way, the afternoon at the station passes quietly; there are no call-outs, and they catch up on the rota and paperwork that needed doing for the state audit, and she clocks out at five sharp and heads back down to the once-again snowed-in Bug, only to find Kathryn leaning against it, wearing a hat with two little poms dangling from it and a soft pink scarf to go alongside her blue jacket.  
  
Emma hesitates for just a second and then moves in closer, rubbing her hands together and saying, “Hey--were you looking for--”  
  
There’s something so very broken about the look on Kathryn’s face as she asks, “Is it _true_?” that Emma clamps her lips together and then just lowers her eyes.  
  
Being dishonest with her will not help either of them, though, and so after a second she nods, letting the icy cold bite at her cheeks and lips, stinging tears already welling up in her eyes, even if she has no intention of crying about this again.  “Yeah.  It’s true.”  
  
“She cheated on you.”  
  
Crying or no crying, it’s still a blunt force to the chest, and Emma shifts on her feet and then nods again.  
  
“And--”  
  
“And, yeah, I work with the guy she cheated on me with,” Emma finishes, because the look on Kathryn’s face is easy enough to read.  
  
Kathryn stays silent and red-nosed for a few seconds, and then bitterly wipes at her mouth and just manages a, “ _How..._ ” before starting to quietly cry again.  
  
The knitted-over cuts Regina inflicted months ago start to burn a little just at the sight of it--and the _memory_ of being this person, someone with so very little to look forward to--but she pushes the urge to feel sorry for herself down and just takes a step in closer and puts a careful hand on Kathryn’s upper arm.  “C’mon.  Why don’t I--why don’t we go somewhere, and we’ll talk about it.”  
  
“Not the diner,” Kathryn says, and then squeezes her eyes shut and says, “ _Not_ your house.”  
  
“I don’t live with Mary Margaret anymore--I moved back in with... I’m back _home_ ,” Emma says, awkwardly enough for Kathryn to open her eyes again.  
  
“How can you look at her and--”  
  
Emma takes a deep breath and feels the cuts flex, once more, and then just squeezes her hand around her car keys and says, “I don’t know.  I couldn’t, for a very long time, and then I couldn’t handle _not_ looking at her either, but--no two situations are the same, Kathryn.”  
  
“So what’s different about yours?” Kathryn asks, brushing her hand past her eyes.  
  
There is no one sentence answer to that, and so Emma just exhales slowly into the cold and then tilts her head.  “What’s your drink of choice?”  
  
…  
  
Fifteen minutes later, Kathryn looks a little more like herself, even if the smile she manages to produce when Emma puts an apple martini down in front of her is a little weaker than it normally is.  
  
“I’m sorry,” she then says.  “For accosting you outside of your place of employment.  It’s really none of my business--”  
  
“That’s probably true, but--I don’t mind talking about it,” Emma says, feeling the lie around in her head for a little while and then swallowing it down with a sip.  “We’re going to have to anyway, now that Gold’s going to try to go after her on some sort of moral crusade.”  
  
Kathryn drills her eyes into the table for a few seconds and then reaches for her drink, swirling the tooth-picked cherry around and then fishing it out.  “I just can’t believe she didn’t tell me.”  
  
“Really?” Emma asks, feeling her eyebrows knit together.  “You can’t believe that Regina Mills kept a secret from you?”  
  
It earns her a mild chuckle, and then Kathryn just sighs, dropping her chin into her hand and putting the drink down again.  “I guess I’m just disappointed.”  
  
“Good people do bad things, Kathryn,” Emma says, which feels like something she’s going to be saying a lot in the coming few weeks.  “You’re the one who defended her to me when everyone else thought that I was better off without her.  Does knowing what she did _really_ change her that much?”  
  
Kathryn stays silent for a few seconds as the jukebox at the back of The Rabbit Hole switches to some Zeppelin, and Emma takes another sip of her own drink, wondering if there’s something else she should be saying.  
  
“I wish I had been surprised,” Kathryn then says, quietly.  
  
“By what, Regina--”  
  
“No.  By David,” Kathryn adds, with a brief little swallow.  “I wish that I could actually claim, in my heart of hearts, that I didn’t think there was anything wrong with us; or that there wasn’t anything missing.  But I always knew, even if I didn’t want to know.”  
  
There isn’t really anything to say to that, but after a second Emma shifts in her seat and says, “I wouldn’t have minded a little prior notice, personally.  I think that means this kind of thing blows either way, you know?”  
  
Kathryn manages another one of those feeble smiles and then finally takes a sip of her martini.  “I’m sure it does, but at least you know you’ve really--you’ve had _it_.  The real deal.  Even if Regina did something terrible, your relationship with her was--”  
  
It trails off in a shrug, and Emma stares into her own drink, before finally sighing.  “Nothing’s that straightforward.”  
  
“How did you forgive her?” Kathryn asks, with this hint of hopefulness that Emma knows she’s going to squash in a second.  
  
She bites at the corner of her lip, and then says, “I’m not sure I have, but when she tells me that there’s no one else she wants to be with, I believe her.  That doesn’t--I mean, I feel the same way, so at that point, we’re pretty much fucked.  We either get over it or... well.”  
  
Kathryn stays silent for a few seconds, and then laughs, before covering her mouth.  “That’s very romantic, Emma.”  
  
“Romance is--I don’t know.  It’s easy, it’s for other people.  We tried, a while ago, but it’s just not us.  And I guess that means that a lot of people aren’t going to understand what I see in her, let alone what she sees in me, but--it’s messy but it’s _right_.”  
  
“As opposed to clean and wrong,” Kathryn says, toying with one of the poms on her hat, where it rests on the table.  “Yeah.  I guess messy and right is what we should all be looking for.”  
  
Emma finishes her drink and then carefully examines Kathryn for a few seconds, before saying, “Look--I know a lot of the inside stuff here, obviously, because Mary Margaret’s my best friend and--I swear to you, they’ve never done anything.  They just--”  
  
“They like each other,” Kathryn says, her mouth crumpling after a second.  “There isn’t really anything you can do about that, can you?  Feeling something for someone.  There isn’t an off switch.”  
  
“No, there really isn’t.  But... the way he handled the entire situation... Mary Margaret isn’t exactly jumping for joy, either.  She’s pretty upset.  And we were thinking that since--well.  Since this is a crappy situation for everyone and it probably screwed with a lot of Christmas plans, maybe we could do a Christmas dinner together.  At um, Regina’s.  Or _mine_ , I guess.”  Emma scratches at her cheek, before scrunching up her nose.  “I know this sounds like it’s going to be very awkward but--”  
  
“No, I understand what you’re saying.  I guess I owe Mary Margaret an apology anyway,” Kathryn says, before sighing softly.  “T’is the season for forgiveness, isn’t it?  And--I don’t know what I’m angrier at, now.  Staying with David all this time because it was easy, or--the fact that he might’ve found something that’s _better_ than our marriage was.  Our _friendship_.  Either way, it’s not her I’m mad at.”  
  
“You’ll find someone,” Emma says, after barely a pause.  “I really believe that.  I’m not--you know, life’s not a fairy tale or anything, but I’d like to think that good people get pretty good lives, at the end of the day.  Maybe it’s not immediate, but eventually...”  
  
Kathryn’s eyes soften into what becomes a genuine smile, and then she says, “I _knew_ you were a secret soft touch.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes.  “I don’t know about that--”  
  
“Ask Mary Margaret, if she’d be okay with this dinner.  I think I just--I want to start working on moving on with my life.  I might as well start with her,” Kathryn finally says, picking up the toothpick bearing the cherry and snagging it off with her teeth.  “And tell Regina to call me, because I’m still pretty mad at _her_ for not telling me about this idiotic tryst she had with Graham _Humbert_ of all people.”  
  
“I’ll pass that along,” Emma says, feeling herself relax a little and then reaching for their empty glasses.  “One more?”  
  
…  
  
When she gets home, it’s seven thirty and she’s a little buzzed, but mostly just very late.  She pauses in front of the front door, because this is that thing she does that Regina hates, where she can’t stick to normal times and misses dinner and probably _should_ have texted, but she was kind of preoccupied and then there was booze, so--  
  
The door opens before she can even think of a way to say “I suck, but that’s okay, right?”, and Regina is there in a deep red blouse and a white apron and a pair of stockings that Emma fondly remembers peeling off once or twice.  Okay, more often than that.  They’re not even stockings.  They’re thigh-highs.  They are _so_ not office appropriate but that’s probably why she also generally wears a semi-decent skirt over them, and then at the bottom of the thigh-highs there’s heels that bring them at plain eye level, and--  
  
“ _Hello_ ,” Emma just about manages, when she’s done looking Regina up and down.  “Sorry I’m late.”  
  
“Dinner’s in the oven, waiting to be reheated,” Regina says, a little tersely, which is usually a sign that they’re going to start bickering while following each other around the house, which will then lead to shouting around the house, which they’re not supposed to do anymore because Archie said it would be _better_ if they learned to calmly channel their feelings.  
  
Emma has a feeling or two right now, and squints at Regina.  “Where’s Henry?”  
  
“Doing his homework.  We attempted to wait for you, but as you gave us no indications of when you would be home-- _really_ , Emma, not even a text?” Regina asks, in that annoyed and huffy voice that Emma would probably associate with being scolded by her mother as a child if she’d ever _had_ a mother.  
  
“It’s--Kathryn was outside of the station and sad.  I took her out for a drink.”  
  
A muscle in Regina’s left cheek tics, visibly, and then she deflates a little.  “I see.”  
  
“Yeah, she thinks you’re kind of a not-so-great friend, because real friends talk about their relationship crap,” Emma says, raising her eyebrows.  “Might want to call and fix that.”  
  
In a crabbier mood, Regina would snap back something like _I don’t need you telling me about appropriate social protocol, Miss Swan,_ but today she just steps back and lets Emma into the house; Emma divests herself of her outerwear in the span of seconds and then feels her nose twitch.  
  
“You made lasagna,” she then says, before turning to look at Regina.  “Seriously?”  
  
“Welcome home,” Regina says, just about managing to not roll her eyes.  “I thought I’d make it into a minor occasion, but of course you opted to not _attend_ your own celebratory dinner, at which point--”  
  
“At which point--you put on those things and did that thing with your hair and decided to glare at me a little, which--yeah, I can’t see the appeal of any of those things at all,” Emma says, shoving her hands into her back pockets and leaning back against the door, clicking it shut behind her.  
  
There’s something smugly pleased about the way Regina assesses her.  “Dessert is _actually_ in the refrigerator, but--”  
  
“It’ll keep,” Emma says, reaching around her for the string that’s holding that ridiculously housewife-hot apron tied at the back and tugging on it gently.  “Lose the shoes; we don’t want to alert Henry to the fact that we’re heading to the bedroom this early in the evening.”  
  
Regina’s eyebrows spike upwards and then she just says, “ _Miss Swan--_ ” in a way that makes Emma feel strangely at home.  
  
“Or I can just do you right here, in the hallway closet--”  
  
“Oh my _God_ , Emma,” Regina sort of hisses at her, before immediately slipping her shoes off and neatly putting them next to Emma’s boots.  
  
Words aren’t always Emma’s strong suit, but sometimes, she knows exactly how to employ them to get to where she wants to go.  
  
…  
  
She’s taken just enough of the edge off for this not to be uncomfortable.    
  
It’s nice, that her mind’s a little less sharp than it normally is, because her hands are doing the driving right now and they don’t really want to be anywhere but _all_ over Regina.  The idea that even with the edge off, they’d ever come together as anything other than razor-sharp is ridiculous, though; her fingers toy with the first button on Regina’s shirt and then just give up--take hold of the shirt’s ends, tugged up from that black, high-slitted skirt and--  
  
“ _Do you have any idea how much money that shirt cost?”_ Regina demands, in a tone of voice that nearly makes Emma’s knees buckle.  “You _barbarian--_ ”  
  
“Send me the fucking bill, if you have to,” Emma says, feeling around the side of Regina’s skirt until she’s got her thumb on the hidden zipper, before sliding it down inch by inch until the skirt itself kind of slinks away.  
  
When it's puddled on the floor, Regina is left in all black thigh highs and lacy, scrappy little panties and matching bra, at which point Emma gives her a knowing look.  
  
Regina rolls her eyes, stepping in closer, and then says, “I’m familiar with your appetites, dear; I doubted that just dinner and dessert would cut it on an occasion such as … this.”  
  
Well.  
  
A second later, she’s sort of shoved onto the bed before Regina makes quick work of her jeans, and that leaves her in a comfortable cotton sweater with something right out of an _Agent Provocateur_ catalogue straddling her.  
  
It’s the stuff of racing hearts, trembling muscles and uncomfortable levels of longing, but when she trails a hand up Regina’s stomach to reach for the first of two bra straps that stand in the way of her first of many goals, she hesitates for a few seconds anyway, and takes a deep breath before looking at her wife.  
  
“ _What_?” Regina asks, impatient and hot, the embodiment of kissable moue.  
  
Emma swallows and then says, “I can’t believe we almost lost this.  You came so close to--”  
  
Regina’s eyes darken on the spot, and then Emma finds herself bodily pinned to the mattress, her wife hovering over her, usually immaculate hair falling into their eyes and Regina’s lips close enough for Emma to feel her breathe.  
  
“It meant _nothing_.  I--the only thing that got me through it at all was thinking about _you_ ,” is what she gets told, and maybe it’s more than she even needed to hear, but it’s sincere enough for her to close her eyes for a few seconds and then say, “Regina, I swear, if you _ever_ so much as--”  
  
Regina doesn’t give her the chance to say more; just covers her whole and steals her breath and makes her forget altogether that elsewhere, they cannot come together this smoothly without a hell of a lot of work.  
  
…  
  
She doesn’t want to stop, but Regina weakly pushes at her head once more and, in a sort of tortured voice, says, “Emma, _enough_ \--”, which makes her laugh and pull back just enough to rest her cheek on Regina’s hip bone, hand splayed out on Regina’s thigh in a way that probably seems a little possessive.  
  
Hell; maybe it _is_.  
  
She can still hear, dimly, Regina’s breathing; it’s slowly steadying, chest just rising and falling in a regular pattern that somehow gets her own pulse to line up again as well.  Regina is as boneless and relaxed as she gets, and there’s a hand toying with her hair in a way that makes her want to close her eyes and nod off.  Whatever they want to be saying to each other, it can keep until the morning.    
  
Two seconds later, her stomach growls loudly enough for Regina to jolt, and then start laughing in a way that Emma doesn’t think she’s ever really heard before.  It’s very relaxed and open; _new,_ and yet Emma can tell that laughter like this _isn’t_ new to Regina--it’s just been absent from her life for a very long time.    
  
She doesn’t doubt that other people could get Regina off, but getting her to be this unwound... well, she’s pretty sure that’s all _hers_ , after many years of trial and error.  
  
Blearily, she lifts her head and, after a few seconds of watching Regina just smirk at her, says, “What?  I obviously haven’t had dinner.”  
  
Regina laughs again, now teasingly enough for Emma to feel a little sheepish, and then starts to shift out from under her.  “I’ll turn the oven back on.”  
  
“Can I maybe get dinner in bed?  I’m _really_ comfortable--”  
  
“Keep dreaming, dear,” Regina says, but before sliding off the bed altogether, reaches for her and gives her this really sweet, totally unexpected kiss.  
  
Words well up unexpectedly, right past the little parts of her that still feel bruised and threatened enough to demand things from Regina like _tell me that I’m better than him_ and _tell me he couldn’t make you come apart like this_ , and she bites her lip for a few seconds until Regina’s eyes soften, but by then they aren’t even needed anymore.  
  
“I know,” Regina just says, and then tugs on a stray, messy curl of Emma’s hair with the barest hint of a smile.  
  
…  
  
Henry joins them about half an hour later, and sits down next to Emma on the couch--she  might not have gotten Regina to agree to _lasagna in bed_ , but obviously worked her over well enough to at least earn _lasagna on the sofa_ \--and peers at the TV.  
  
“Is this that show about the serial killers?”  
  
“Mhm,” Emma says, swallowing quickly.  
  
He frowns, with the exact same kind of distaste that his mother has for the show, and then curls up into her side all the same.  “I think Mom might’ve secretly watched it, sometimes, while you were gone.  I heard her complaining about it once.”  
  
Emma fights some laughter, because Regina’s in the chair by the fire, going over the formal statement that Emma will be giving in the Mirror in the next few days; they’re not allowed to give public speeches until January, but that doesn’t mean they can’t bend those rules a little to get their version of the story out first.  Whatever Regina wants her to say, she’ll have to probably reconstruct it until it sounds like something that would actually come out of her mouth, but she’s curious to see how Regina will frame it, regardless.  
  
At least, until Henry shifts again, and then she forgets all about the campaign, because--whatever.  It’s Regina’s job, but Regina's job isn't their lives.  
  
“Want to play that stupid tennis game that I’m really bad at?” she then asks him.  
  
“Only if you both wear the wrist straps; I’ll not have another one of my vases suffer because _someone_ imagines herself to be Steffi Graf,” Regina says, peering over at her for just a second.  
  
Emma rolls her eyes and says, “ _Yes, dear_ ”, which causes Henry to giggle for a second and then leap off the couch to go and find the Wii remotes; they’ll be in his room somewhere, because the console only made its way back downstairs in the last few days, as far as she’s been able to tell.  
  
“I wasn’t joking,” Regina adds, when he’s skidded out of the room on his socks.  “You break it, you buy it, Miss Swan.”  
  
“I _know_ , you fascist,” Emma says, taking a final bite of lasagna and then getting up to put the plate in the dishwasher.  
  
On her way back, she pauses in the doorway, because Henry’s right next to Regina, with an arm awkwardly around her shoulder--as far as it stretches anyway--and saying, “--bad thing, but you also made it _better_.”  
  
The surprised look on Regina’s face is one that she’ll carry with her for a long while, even before it relaxes into a slightly pained smile--one that says, _I know how close we came; I’ll never not know_ \--and she rubs a hand along Henry’s back.  “No need to thank me, Henry.”  
  
He takes that in stride, and squirms out of Regina’s hold again, before spotting Emma in the doorway and holding out one of the remotes for her.  “Ready?”  
  
She smiles, but it’s Regina--and her battle plan, slowly being pieced together--that she looks at when she responds with a confident.  “Yeah, I am.”


	22. Chapter 22

December turns dark and foreboding, even if the general atmosphere outside doesn’t touch the inside of Regina’s house much.  Around the ninth of December, some kids try to toilet paper the exterior, but fail miserably because the roof slants too much and generally is too high up for effective teepeeing.  
  
They wake up to actually mostly wound-up toilet rolls in the front yard, which confuses Henry to no end, because obviously his mother has never told him about teepeeing, which is not the kind of thing that happens in Storybrooke, _ever_.  
  
Still, if that’s the reach that Gold’s hate campaign has, it’s not something to lie awake over at night; and truthfully, Emma hasn’t slept this well in months now.  Sharing pillow-space with a cranky, overworked city official up for re-election really shouldn’t be as relaxing as it is, but somehow, even a cranky, overworked Regina has an almost narcoleptic effect on her.  Her back hits the bed most nights while she’s already mostly asleep, and it feels _great_.  
  
…  
  
By the twelfth, the original factual posters have all been taken down, and set on fire with a vengeance by Mary Margaret--who seems content to be taking out her own life angst on the slander being projected at Regina, for now--but Gold, of course, isn’t the type to give up.    
  
The latest ‘shop job, which Emma discovers on the fifteenth, is more explicit, to the point where half the town is whispering about whether or not that is actually what the Mayor looks like underneath all those suits, and the other half is filing official complaints with the Sheriff’s Department because those kinds of posters could scar _children_.  
  
Her patrols all month have boiled down to taking down any posters she can find and assuring the general population that they’re a joke in really, really poor taste, but the Mayor is not actually banging the entire Sheriff’s Department, inside of the department or anywhere else that it’s been suggested that trysts are taking place.  
  
“Seriously, the only law enforcement officer she’s with is me,” she ends up saying, with more of a grimace than a smile, when at five minutes to five some concerned citizens accost her out by the hospital--and Graham and Regina, in fake flagrante, have been stapled over a breast cancer advisory, which really is going _too_ far--and demand explanations.  
  
A sour-faced nurse that Emma dimly recognizes as being that receptionist in the mental health clinic downstairs says, “Well, given what she’s _like_ , I wouldn’t be so proud of that, Deputy.”  
  
The next three minutes start with an, “ _Excuse me?_ ” and end with--  
  
…  
  
Regina stares at her, briefly mute with rage.  
  
“Look, I didn’t--” Emma says, before dropping her forehead against the bars.  
  
To her mortification, Regina actually steps in close enough to sniff at her for a second, and then rolls her eyes.  “Oh, you’re not even _drunk_ this time.  I guess I ought to be grateful that you left the chainsaw at home and decided to just manually assault a civilian.”  
  
It takes more willpower than Emma has to actually not say, _she had it coming!_ , and so she settles for, “First of all, she started it, and secondly, I did it for you.”  
  
“You throttled a potential voter... for me,” Regina repeats back at her, so tightly wound now that for a second Emma thinks she might take one in the face herself, but then Regina just presses her hands up against her face and says, “What are you planning on getting me for Christmas?  A set of framed photographs of you yelling at homeless people?”  
  
“As if there even are any homeless people in Storybrooke,” Emma says, curling her hands around the bars again and then adding, “You should probably stress that, in your campaign.”  
  
“My campaign that argues for … impeccable safety and orderliness in town.  Including the fine work of the Sheriff’s Department.   _Yes,_ Emma, of course.”  
  
Graham clears his throat in the background and holds up the station keys.  “Madam Mayor, are you bailing her out or--”  
  
Regina’s face sets in that hideous way it sometimes does, where she looks more like Cora than like herself, and then she just glares at Emma and says, “How long can you hold her for?”  
  
“If the victim doesn’t press charges--”  
  
“Let’s say they’re thinking about it,” Regina drones out, icily.  “Let’s say I’m _encouraging_ them to think about it.”  
  
“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Emma says, feeling her face contort a little.  “You’re not _serious_ , are you?”  
  
“I think the maximum is forty-eight hours--” Graham says, sounding like he’d rather be set on fire by a band of poachers than continue to stay in the station for now.  
  
Regina’s eyes narrow, and then she just coolly says, “Forget about charges, but keep her until dinner.  I’ll call when I’m ready to see her again.”  
  
Graham offers a shaky salute, and Emma says, “Are you _kidding me right now_?” but Regina just holds up her hand and heads back out of the office, ignoring her completely.  
  
The room is silent for a few seconds and then Graham says, “Do you... want a donut?  Or maybe an ice pack?”  
  
Emma lowers her head for a few seconds and then says, “Get Nurse Ratchet back here and I’ll give her the most _sincere_ of my many apologies, and then we’ll see about the ice pack, maybe.”  
  
“I think she might still be at the hospital--”  
  
“ _Graham_ ,” Emma just snaps, and he clamps his lips together and heads back to his office.  
  
…  
  
Dinner is quiet.  
  
At least, until Emma opens her mouth for something other than food, and says, “You know if anything you should be happy because I’m pretty sure that this kind of thing _really_ sells our relationship as being genuine.  As if I’d assault someone for saying nasty things about a wife I didn’t want to be with.”  
  
“You _hit someone_?” Henry blurts out.  
  
Regina doesn’t even raise her head, just her eyes, and Emma digs her fork back into her spaghetti and says, “It’s a figure of speech.”  
  
“What does it mean?”  
  
“Henry--eat your dinner,” Emma sighs, and then wonders if she can make a break for it before Regina decides to finally turn some of that silent but obviously torrential rage towards her.    
  
…  
  
Sometimes--okay, _often_ \--sex is the easiest form of conciliation.  The hand that Nurse Ratchet clawed at in supposed self-defense already hurts like hell, so she might as well risk Regina flinging it off her with a pointed, “Get _off_ me.”  
  
That doesn’t end up happening; she’s already halfway down a pair of silk pyjama pants with a few more mumbled apologies when Regina tersely says, “It’s _not_ appealing.”  
  
“What isn’t?”  
  
“Violence, on my behalf,” Regina says, staring intently at the ceiling.  
  
Emma pauses and then squints.  “Are you … telling me, or trying to convince yourself?”  
  
“It’s a juvenile reaction that only people who cannot use _words_ to get out of a disagreement resort to, and--”  
  
“And you think it’s hot,” Emma says, shifting until she’s a little more fully on top of Regina.  “That’s why you’re so pissed off with me.  You want to be mad but you’re not _really_.”  
  
“Oh, I’m mad,” Regina assures her, finally looking at her.  “Gold has been baiting you for a few weeks and you’ve given him everything he could hope for and more.  Short of saying you’re going into anger management therapy--”  
  
“Well, I _am_ ,” Emma says.  “I mean, aren’t we already?  Isn’t that what...”  
  
“You thankfully were off duty.  By about two _minutes_ ,” Regina sighs.  
  
“Regina, I swear, she had it coming.”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes and then just stares at her for a few seconds.  
  
“And... I’m really sorry and it won’t happen again?” Emma tries.  
  
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep, dear,” Regina says, before shifting and then nudging Emma’s hand.  “Is that still functional or are have you temporarily crippled yourself?”  
  
“Wow, thanks for asking, for what I’m sure are not at all selfish reasons,” Emma says, but then flexes her fingers anyway.  “It’ll be fine, and if not, I can--you know, I’ve got _two_ , so we’ll be all right regardless.”  
  
“Hm,” is all she gets out of Regina, but a second later her shirt gets manhandled off her and--  
  
Yeah.  Sometimes sex _is_ actually the answer.  
  
…  
  
She briefly considers hiding the morning paper from Regina, but as if _that_ will work when it’s also her homepage on her laptop, the first thing she checks on  her phone in the mornings, and her own name is her top Google alert.  
  
 _MAYOR’S MALIGNED MISTRESS BATTERS BYSTANDER_  
  
“Look, Ma, I made the papers,” she just mumbles, before flipping to the next page when Henry dawdles into the kitchen and heads straight for the cereal.  
  
Her phone starts ringing a few moments later, and she answers it warily, only to have Mary Margaret sigh, “ _Emma...._ ” at her.  
  
“Hey, at least I didn’t--you know.  Chainsaw,” Emma says.  
  
Henry looks at her with an extremely curious expression, which she ignores, and then she folds the paper up again and holds it up over her shoulder as Regina saunters in.  
  
The dark look that passes over her wife’s face is as tedious as Mary Margaret’s, “Did you have to touch her?  The town is just reacting to what Gold is doing, and you’re better than this, Emma.  I know you are.”  
  
“Okay, you know what?  Say _you’re_ married.  Say you’ve just been through a pretty rough spot in that marriage, but you really love your--husband, or whatever, and you’re trying to work through it, and some asshole--sorry, Henry--some _bitchy_ stranger basically tries to make your partner out to be some... I can’t say what I’m thinking right now.  Wouldn’t _you_ lose it?  If anyone’s going to call Regina a you-know-what, then it’s going to damn well be me,” she says, snapping out the last few words with so much force that the crinkling of the paper behind her stops and Henry pours enough cereal into his bowl for the thing to overflow.  
  
Mary Margaret swallows, thinly, and then says, “Okay.”  
  
“And I said I was sorry,” Emma adds, with a little less fire.  
  
“Okay.  I just want you to know that--well, there are a lot of us who are on your side, okay?  Who want _you_ to be happy, and we understand that a lot of your happiness comes from Regina also being happy, and what makes Regina happy is bossing the entire town around.”  
  
Emma has to gnaw down on  her lip abruptly to not start laughing, but it’s not as if it isn’t true.  “You know what?  Don’t vote for her for my sake.  Vote for her because she’s good at her job, because she’ll do a better job than Gold ever will, and because you know I’ll keep her in check if she tries to cross over to the dark side or whatever.  … Henry, don’t look at me like that, it’s a figure of speech; your mom isn’t like, Darth Vader.”  
  
“Who?” Henry asks, squinting.  
  
“Wait, have I never made you watch Star Wars?” Emma asks, before shooting Regina a look.  “How has he never seen Star Wars?”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes hard enough for it to hurt and then just heads for the coffee maker, pressing a kiss to Henry’s head in passing; he’s scrambling to get cereal back into the box, but sort of relaxes into the touch anyway, and just like that, the whole punching people thing seems like it’s really just _not_ important.  Maybe the whole campaign isn’t, anymore.  
  
Not that she’d ever say that to Regina, but it helps her finally start breathing normally again, because the only thing she might’ve screwed up is a few people’s votes, and they were probably just looking for a reason not to vote for Regina in the first place.  
  
“Are we still on for lunch today?” Mary Margaret asks, sounding amused.  
  
“Yeah, absolutely.  I’m on nights, so I’ll just stop by the school to get you--text when you’re ready.”  
  
“Okay.  Try not to hit any more people on the way over,” Mary Margaret says.  
  
“I hate you,” Emma responds, but knows she’s smiling when she hangs up and looks at Regina.  
  
“What?” Regina asks, warily.  
  
“You’ll be happy to know that Mary Margaret is _definitely_ planning on voting for you, still.  See?  It’s not all terrible.”  
  
The sound Regina makes in response is indescribable, as is the way she somehow pulls back from it to plaster on something that is _almost_ a smile, probably for Henry’s sake.  “ _Wonderful_.”  
  
…  
  
Mary Margaret spends most of their lunch date trying not to laugh at her, and Emma eventually just sighs and says, “I think I’m volunteering for community service.  At the hospital.”  
  
“As what?  A... candy striper?” Mary Margaret asks, somehow managing to keep her face in check.  “That seems--”  
  
“What?  I’m not a sixteen year old girl, Mary Margaret; God, I meant I’d go to like the children’s ward and read stories or something.  I’m pretty good at reading stories; don’t tell Regina this, but Henry swears that I do it better.  It’s probably the sound effects--although she’s much better at really scary stuff because she’s, y’know--”  
  
“Terrifying?” Mary Margaret supplies.  
  
Emma sort of smiles.  “Well, to some of you, maybe.  She’s putty in my hands.”  
  
“That’s … more than I ever wanted to know, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, blushing abruptly.  
  
“Oh, _geez_ , I didn’t mean--”  Emma sighs and then turns to Ruby, holding up her mug.  “Anyway--do you think you can maybe get over your fears for a night?  Because--I’ve been holding off on asking you, but we’re hoping to start some new holiday traditions this year and … well, we’d like you to be a part of them.”  
  
The very measured way in which Mary Margaret puts down her cutlery is amusing enough, but then she presses a hand up to her forehead and says, “No--definitely not hallucinating.  Did you just invite me over for Christmas?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“And Regina _knows_ you’re doing this?”  
  
Emma wrinkles her nose.  “Okay, she might be my putty, but I’m not suicidal.  Yeah, she knows.  She agreed, actually, that we should make an effort to do more things as a family with those nearest and dearest to us, so... the other part of this invitation is that we’re also having Kathryn over.”  
  
Mary Margaret’s eyes bulge briefly and then she laughs, more at herself than at Emma.  “Um,” is the furthest she gets on a comment.  
  
“Now, I already talked to Kathryn and she actually wants to make amends with you.  Everyone from me to Regina to David has stressed to her that you didn’t really do anything, and she wants to say she’s sorry and I guess it’s the kind of thing that might as well happen over expensive ham, you know?”  
  
Mary Margaret looks unconvinced and then tentatively says, “Are you sure this isn’t just some ruse to get me to Regina’s house so they can...”  
  
“What, stab you with a carving knife?  Tie you up in the basement and keep you as a prisoner?”  Emma rolls her eyes.  “I have your back, okay.  They’d have to go through me first and as we all know, I’m pretty good with my fists.  Thanks, Rubes.”  
  
“I think it’s hot--you hitting people,” Ruby tells her, and then adds a whispered, “Don’t tell the Mayor.”  
  
Emma struggles between laughter and being incredibly embarrassed, but then just says, “Well, come out for drinks with us this Friday and maybe I’ll flex my bicep for you.”  
  
Ruby fans herself with her order pad and then winks before heading back to the bar, and Emma just shakes her head before looking at Mary Margaret again.  “I promise it’s not a set-up.  Regina is--look, she’s kind of on probation with me, and part of probation is getting better at letting me have a normal life here.  So not one where--I have my family, and then I have my friends, and they’re two totally separate things all the time.”  
  
“I can’t promise I won’t annoy her.  I seem to do it just by breathing,” Mary Margaret says, after a few seconds.  
  
“Yeah, but, _everything_ annoys her.  I put a mug in the dishwasher with the handle facing the wrong way this morning and got a five minute lecture about how that’s the kind of thing that breaks our kitchenware and how do I still not know this blah blah blah,” Emma says, before half-smiling.  “You just have to... ignore her, and focus on when she does _nice_ things.”  
  
They’re quiet for a few seconds, and then Mary Margaret’s hand slinks across the table and reaches for hers, squeezing their fingertips together tightly.  “Thank you.”  
  
“For what?  Inviting you to have dinner with a woman who um, well--” Emma starts, before realizing she’d better just not finish that sentence.  
  
“No.  For including me,” Mary Margaret says, so earnestly that Emma abruptly feels a lump develop in her throat, like some sort of physical _feelings_ virus that she’ll have to cough out sooner or later.  
  
“Hey, you’re--you know.  You’re important,” she sort of mumbles, after a few seconds, and then just squeezes back, because Mary Margaret knows.  
  
“Do you want me to bring some food over, or--”  
  
“I’ll have Regina call you with whatever she needs; food isn’t really my department.  I’m in charge of the alcohol, and the entertainment, so after dinner we’re doing strippers--”  
  
“ _Emma,_ ” Mary Margaret scolds her, and then laughs a little despite herself.  “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I’m actually looking forward to this a little, if only for the surreal experience of actually being in Regina’s house.”  
  
“Hey, that’s my house too,” Emma says, before stirring some more sugar into her coffee.  
  
“Mmhm,” Mary Margaret just says, and then tilts her head.  “I’ve always meant to ask; does she _actually_ have some sort of torture chamber in the basement, or is that just a rumor?”  
  
…  
  
“Mary Margaret wants to know about our torture chamber,” she says, when Regina calls at the end of her shift.  
  
“Our _what_?”  
  
“You know, the place where you tie me up when I’ve been bad, and also where you interrogate the little civilians who cross you.”  
  
“Oh, for God’s sake,” Regina mutters, and then sighs and audibly counts to five.  “I’m calling about something _serious_ , if you think you can manage to act your age for a whole five minutes.”  
  
“Yeah, of course,” Emma says, spinning around in her chair briefly and then uncapping a pen before chewing on the end of it.  “Campaign stuff?”  
  
“I’ve set up your interview.  I was going to coach you, first, but we’re utterly out of time; where I thought Gold’s efforts to undermine me were losing momentum, your little spat with that nurse has meant that he’s gaining sympathy again and we have to undermine it _now_.”  
  
Emma looks down at what she’s wearing and then says, “So--today?”  
  
“I’ll be picking you up at five and we’re heading to the diner, which will be cleared out for half an hour while Sidney interviews you--”  
  
“Ugh,” Emma says, without meaning to.  
  
“Dear, he’s hardly on my list of favorites at the moment, but I _control_ him, and--”  
  
“Yeah, and if he prints anything we don’t like you’ll drag him down to the torture chamber.”  
  
Regina exhales loudly and then says, “Is there somewhere you can change, in the station?”  
  
“What, you don’t want me to look like the embodiment of law and justice?”  
  
“I want you to look like the very attractive, slightly younger woman that I’ve somehow swept off her feet and who now stands by me because our love is _bigger_ than the awful things that have stood in the way of it.”  
  
Emma snorts and lets her pen fall back to the station.  “Do you maybe want to hire an actress to _play_ me or--”  
  
“Emma, if there is one thing that will work in our favor right now, it’s your unerring sense of right and wrong and the way you just _brim_ with earnest do-gooding; my only point is that you might as well be as attractive as I know you can be for the pictures.”  
  
It’s hard to decide if she needs to be offended by that assessment of her ‘better’ qualities or just quietly flattered by them, so in the end she just says, “Okay, well--you had a speech ready, right?  Can you email that along so I have _some_ idea of what I should be talking about, for the campaign’s sake?”  
  
“It’s already been sent.  Do you not have alerts on on your phone?”  
  
Emma smiles faintly.  “No--unlike you, I don’t feel the need to know _everything_ that happens in this town right as it happens.”  
  
“Something we will definitely consider when the next promotions cycle comes around,” Regina says, completely void of emotion.  
  
“ _Hey_ ,” Emma counters, but Regina just laughs softly and says, “See you soon, dear.”  
  
…  
  
She’s not entirely sure what to expect when Regina shows up with a garment bag, and somewhat warily follows her into the station bathroom, where Regina hangs the bag up from the door and then looks at her expectantly.  
  
“Are you--um, do you want to--” Emma starts to say, before cocking a hip in what is probably an obvious invitation.  
  
Regina licks her lips slowly enough for her to feel like she’s being hypnotized, and then shakes her head, with a curt, “We don’t have time.  Perform well with Sidney and...”  
  
“And you’ll perform well for me?” Emma asks, before pulling her sweater over her head.  It sends her hair up, a mess of static and product, and then she shivers, because the bathroom is fucking _cold_ and she’s basically only wearing jeans now.  
  
Regina just looks at her intently and then takes her sweater, before reaching behind her and unzipping the bag slowly and pulling out a shirt that--  
  
“That’s not mine,” Emma says, stepping in closer.  “That’s _yours_.”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“That’s what you were wearing when you did that thing that was almost a proposal but really more a, _hey if I die maybe you want to keep Henry,_ ” Emma notes, before reaching for the fabric.  
  
Regina’s face falls for a brief second, and then she just takes the shirt off a hanger and says, “You wore it after we--well, you know.  I remember thinking it looked good on you.  Blue brings out--”  
  
“My eyes.  Yeah, you might’ve said,” Emma says, reaching for the shirt and then slowly buttoning it up.  “I don’t think I wore it for more than a few minutes, and I didn’t button it up.  Is this going to work for my boobs?”  
  
Regina stays silent until she’s done, then tugs on the collar briefly, and then gives her a look that defies any sort of response.  “I’d say it does.”  
  
It’s hard not to feel like a kid playing dress-up, but Regina is letting her wear jeans, at least--just a cleanly ironed pair that are flattering without being _too_ tight, and then hands her a navy jacket of some kind, with a few pockets and zippers but a flattering, feminine cut.  It’s not _really_ a blazer, which Emma would’ve vetoed just on the principle that the town _knows_ what she dresses like, but it’s a little more upscale than one of her leather jackets, and she puts it on and tests it for comfort and then looks at Regina with some surprise.  
  
“Early Christmas present.  I hope you like it,” Regina says, in a way that manages to sound like a _no_ will result in Emma’s swift demise.  It hardly matters, because she _does_ like it--it’s a little different, and kind of _adult,_ but then she’s almost thirty and a _mother_ so...  
  
Regina fusses with her hair for a few seconds, before saying, “Can we put it up?”  
  
“A ponytail?” Emma checks.  “That’s a little--”  
  
“No, I thought one of those... things you sometimes do when you’re in a hurry to shower and don’t want to wash  your hair,” Regina says, twisting her hair up for a second and then raising an eyebrow at her in the mirror.  “Like so?”  
  
Emma smiles after a second.  “Honest question--have you ever wished Henry was a girl?”  
  
Regina looks incredibly affronted by the mere idea.  “Of course not.  He’s... wonderful, the way he is.  And a child is a child; you don’t go around wishing--”  She trails off, a vaguely haunted look passing over her eyes, and then just sighs.  “I only want him to be the best _he_ can be.  No more, no less.”  
  
“So you’ve never thought about having a girl?  Like--another kid?” Emma asks.  
  
Regina’s eyes flicker with something, but then she says, “This is an involved conversation and while I’m not opposed to having it, now isn’t really the time.”  
  
It sounds like a _yes_ , but nothing is that simple with Regina, so Emma takes the rebuke in stride and lifts her own hair, settling it in a loose bun and letting a few strands of it play around her face.  
  
“What do you think?” she then checks, and Regina’s mouth curves up slightly.  
  
“Well, dear, it worked on me once, so...”  
  
Emma sort of scoffs and then runs her fingers under the tap briefly, before wiping them under her eyes, taking away remnants of make-up with the movement and then looking at herself in the mirror and holding her breath.  
  
“Okay.  Time to save your bid.”  
  
…  
  
Speeches will never be her thing, but Sidney’s questions are leading enough for it to not really matter that she sounds a little stilted and, funnily enough, rehearsed, even though the answers are all coming up on the fly.    
  
Emma’s fairly sure that Sidney didn’t actually write the questions he’s drilling her through, because not one of them is _Are you in fact the most terrible person in the world?_ \--but it doesn’t matter.  The theme of the interview is why Emma would vote for her wife even if she wasn’t married to her, and those kinds of questions are easy to respond to in a genuine way.  
  
Being the Mayor is a thankless job, because Regina can never make everyone happy, but she does a good job of switching priorities around over the course of her term so that everyone with a lobby benefits from the budget at least once in every four years; it’s the kind of thing that the town probably takes for granted and Emma is only aware of because of the intense migraines that Regina comes home with every April.  That aside, so much of the job is nitpicking and ironing over petty squabbling between the various city departments--the waste team, for instance, hates the contract lawyers in planning, which meant that coordinated purchasing was almost impossible until Regina sat everyone down and bargained a few mutual concessions--that Emma can’t actually imagine that someone _wants_ to do it.  
  
It makes sense that Regina threw herself into it when all she had for company was a baby and a town full of people who pitied her, but now, it seems like too much of a pain in the ass for anyone to volunteer for unless they had terrible intentions of just making the town work for _them_.  Regina doesn’t, though, and that’s been proven.    
  
She watches as Sidney writes down a few more notes before pausing and then asking, “What do you make of the rumors that Mayor Mills and Sheriff Humbert had an affair?  They seem to be all over town, and it’s unclear what they’re based on--”  
  
“My comments, actually,” Emma says, after a second.  Her knees start to shake under the table, and Sidney looks up at her with surprise.  “It’s not a secret that I moved out for a while, earlier this year.  It was because of this--well, calling it an affair is overstating it.”  
  
“What _do_ you call it?”  
  
Emma thinks, as Sidney stares at her with open curiosity, but she can’t recall what it was that Regina wanted her to say at this point, and so the best she can do is say what she’s thinking.  “It was... a warning.”  
  
“A _warning_?” Sidney echoes, before looking over at Regina, who is nursing a drink by the bar and pretending she’s completing a crossword in the paper.  “Are you sure that’s what you want to--”  
  
“No, I mean that.  It was a warning that--unless she and I both started working _harder_ to make our marriage work, we couldn’t just keep coasting by, not even with a kid we both love between us.  Regina would call it a terrible mistake, and it was.  I won’t pretend that it didn’t hurt like hell, to find out that she’d been with someone else, but these days I think that if she hadn’t done it, we would’ve--”  Emma hesitates and then sighs.  “We would’ve drifted apart, without any real reason to talk about why it was happening, and I would’ve left town within the next two years.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound like a healthy relationship,” Sidney says, at which point Regina clears her throat so pointedly that he actually jolts in his seat.  
  
Emma rubs her hands together and then says, “No, you’re right.  It wasn’t.  Regina and I got together when she was still mourning her husband, and at that time I wasn’t really ready to be with... well, someone with a really adult life.  Neither of us expected the other to grow or change, and when we both did, we weren’t ready for it.”  She bites on her lip for a few seconds and then says, “But we are now.  I mean, it sounds insane, but I don’t think I realized just how much I love even the things about her that drive me _crazy_ until they suddenly weren’t there anymore.  She’s--she’s not perfect, God, not even close.  But that doesn’t really matter.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Because--everyone’s got a few bad habits, a few dark secrets.  Regina’s are out in the open.  Yeah, she cheated on me--but she also keeps the roads clean every winter, and she’s dropped crime by twenty percent since taking over this town, and you’re not … you wouldn’t be electing her because she’s the most diplomatic or the sweetest or the least intimidating candidate.  You’d be electing her because you know she can get the job done.”  
  
Sidney scribbles away for a few seconds longer, and then asks, “So what this affair implies about her person--”  
  
“Isn’t really anyone’s business, but--most of the people in town know me, and they know that I would’ve never taken her back if I didn’t think that she’s a good person.  A good person, not to mention an amazing mother.  All I can say is that she has my vote, in every single way.”  
  
Sidney clicks off the tape recorder and then looks at Regina, shakily saying, “That’s everything.  Do you need us to--”  
  
“No,” Regina says, in a barely audible voice and without looking at him.  “That’ll be all, Sidney.  Send me the copy before you take it to print, please.”  
  
The regret on his face is pitiable, but he pulls his scarf around his neck again and gathers his hat and his briefcase and heads out the diner again, leaving them alone.  Emma scoots out of the booth and heads over to Regina, who is still studiously staring at the newspaper, and then ducks enough to see her expression.  
  
“I didn’t fuck that up completely, did I?” she asks.  
  
Regina’s mouth works furiously for a few seconds, and then she just sighs softly and says, “You’re a far more deft liar than I thought you were.”  
  
Emma blinks.  “I wasn’t really lying about anything there--”  
  
“A good person?” Regina asks, looking at her plainly now; and there’s something about the way that her eyes look withdrawn that’s a little worrying.  “You don’t mean that.  You _tolerate_ me because of my redeeming qualities, but I haven’t been a _good person_ since--”  
  
“Since Daniel died?” Emma supplies, sitting down on the stool next to Regina’s and reaching for her thigh, rubbing there briefly.  “I think that’s a load of crap.  You’ve hardened, and I think that sucks mostly because it made it really easy for Henry to think of you like the bad guy, but … I mean, I don’t know what I would’ve done in your shoes.  Doing whatever it took to protect yourself and Henry from another situation like that is... well, you _can’t_ , really, but I get why you’d want to.  Why do you think I moved around so much?”  
  
“Because you enjoy freedom.  Because commitment scares you,” Regina says, a little flatly.  
  
“ _No_.  Because if I stay around long enough to have people I care about in my life, I have something to _lose_ , Regina.”  
  
Regina nods after a few seconds and then reaches for her hand, just covering it for a second.  “Leaving aside that you didn’t stick to script for more than a few minutes, I think you did well.  Thank you.”  
  
“Yeah, well, you know me and rules,” Emma says, leaning back against the bar.  “What--”  
  
The door rings behind them, and Regina looks over sharply, before freezing.  
  
A slow round of applause sounds, and then the tapping of a cane; Emma knows what time it is even before Gold says, “Well _played_ , dearie.  A counteroffensive using your very best quality; that someone as _delightful_ as Miss Swan here somehow tolerates you in her life.”  
  
“What do you want, Gold?” Emma asks, shifting until she can look at him fully.  “Don’t you have some more posters to hang up?”  
  
He smiles, thinly, and then tilts his head.  “You can make this stop, you know.  And I don’t mean with your fists, going after everyone who dares to say something _nasty_ about the wife you wish was as wholesome as you are.”  
  
“She doesn’t know anything, Elias,” Regina says, sounding exhausted.  “I’ve told you before--no matter what you do, I will not give up where--”  
  
“ _You poisoned her mind against me_ ,” Gold snaps, sharply enough for Emma to press herself more tightly against the bar.  “You told her lies about me until she could no longer see the truth--”  
  
Regina straightens, at this invitation for a fight, and then just laughs shortly.  “The truth?  What version of it did you hope to sell to her, hm?  The one where--your son _didn’t_ run away to his mother because he was frightened of you?  The one where your desire to _possess_ her stemmed from love and not a horrific desire to control, manipulate, and--”  
  
“She _loved_ me,” Gold says, trembling so visibly that Emma holds her breath on instinct.  
  
“No, dear,” Regina says, before sliding off the stool.  “She was terrified of what you would do to her if she ever _stopped_ loving you; if you ever went too far in your little schemes to extort everyone you know, your shady deals left and right.”  
  
After a second, Gold relaxes back into that glib, snake-like mask he wears whenever he’s at his most threatening.  “You still seem to not understand how this will play out, Regina.  I have been a patient man; I have given her _time,_ as I have given you time to tell me what I deserve to know, but if you don’t tell me what I want to hear now--”  
  
“You’ll do what?  Target my job?  My family?  My _son_?” Regina asks, taking a few solid steps forward; and it’s odd, to see her towering over someone, but she does.  Gold is little more than an imp in front of her now, leaning heavily on his cane.  “The son your precious Belle _adored_?  The son that--made her want children, but _not_ with you?”  
  
“You had no right to get in the middle of our lives,” Gold hisses.  “You are the one who opened yourself up to this, Regina.”  
  
“Perhaps,” Regina agrees, and then smiles thinly.  “But all I did was give her a _choice_ , Elias.  Something that you never did--she could either have you or have nothing.  She could _have_ you, or you would renege all of your promises, all of your _gifts_.  And look at what happened after she left.”  
  
“The flower shop remains open to this very day, does it not?” Gold says, archly.  
  
“And _who_ can the Frenches thank for that?” Regina asks, tipping her chin up.  “Face it, dear.  The only person to blame for Belle _running_ from you, when given the opportunity, is _you_.  No matter how much you might hate me for it; no matter how you try to _ruin_ me--”  
  
“Oh, you have no idea, dearie,” Gold says, and then takes a small, controlled step backwards.  “If you truly think that there are limits to what I will do to find her--”  
  
The smile that plays around Regina’s lips is almost pitying.  “And that is why I will _never_ help you.  You still think that her love is something that can be _taken_.  Not something that must be earned.”  
  
Gold freezes, and then just directs a look at Emma that makes her breath catch in her throat all over again.  “ _Never_.”  
  
“Yes,” Regina says, quietly.  “I will _never_ tell you where she went.”  
  
“We’ll do this your way, then,” he then finally murmurs, in a chalky whisper that is more threatening than his earlier shouts.  
  
Regina says nothing, and watches him slowly walk back out of the diner, until the door clangs shut behind him.  Then, she draws a hand through her hair and lets it fall just enough to cover her mouth, and shakes a little herself.  
  
Emma watches her for a few seconds and then says, “Okay, so this nanny--”  
  
“Her name is Belle French.  And yes, she was Henry’s minder for two years.”  
  
“And... Gold has a thing for babysitters?” Emma asks, quietly.  
  
Regina shoots her a look and then just says, “Her father runs _Game of Thorns_ , on premises he leases from Gold.  He courted her extensively, and she took a chance on him despite age differences and the general town consensus that she could do better.  The town, as it turns out, was right, but Elias had no intention of letting her go.”  Regina hesitates, and then sighs.  “The truly sad thing, in all of this, is that I do believe he genuinely loves her--but his version of love... it’s warped by anger and resentment and fear.  All of it scared her, but she saw no way out of the relationship that wouldn’t result in a miserable life for her entire family--”  
  
“And you intervened,” Emma says, getting to her feet and then putting a hand at the small of Regina’s back.  “That seems like--the kind of thing a good person would do.”  
  
Regina shrugs, faintly.  “Henry adored her, and her father is an honest, hard working businessman.  It was a private matter, but Gold would have made it public, had I not leveraged Belle’s location over him.  Without me on his good side, he will never find her.”  
  
“So if he behaves better, you’ll give her up?” Emma asks.  
  
Regina shakes her head after a few moments.  “No.  I thought one day he might... but no.”  
  
Emma scoffs softly and then says, “Yeah.  You’re a real awful human being, rescuing girls in abusive relationships.  I don’t know why I’d ever want to be with you.”  
  
“I’ve done my own share of dreadful things, Emma,” Regina says, in a way that seems cautioning.  Her eyes are a little regretful when she looks at Emma.  “Don’t confuse the game I play when I’m winning with the game I _can_ play if I need to.  I shouldn’t have to remind you of that.”  
  
It’s a potential slap in the face, but Regina delivers it gently enough where Emma just smiles faintly and says, “I know.  I have enough good karma stacked up for both of us, though.”  
  
It relaxes Regina’s muscles just a little, and then she says, “Let’s go home and enjoy a quiet family life while we still can.  I’m not sure how he’s planning to go after us, but it won’t be pleasant--”  
  
“We’ll deal with it,” Emma says, firmly enough for Regina to just stop.  “Together.”


	23. Chapter 23

She’s poised on a knife’s edge.  
  
With every day that passes and _nothing_ happens, Emma feels herself getting more tightly coiled, in some unmentionable internal space that was empty before now. It seems built just for whatever she has to do to keep her family safe from a guy who, now that Regina’s told her a little more about him, is actually incredibly dangerous.  Not just sinister, not just coercive and sneaky, but actually dangerous enough for his wife to have fled him, his son to have fled after his wife, and his girlfriend to basically give up her entire _life_ just to get away from him.  
  
Gold’s story is the kind of shit that doesn’t happen in towns like Storybrooke, but the more she thinks about Storybrooke, the more it starts to feel like one of those Maine towns in a Stephen King novel; everything’s fine on the surface but God help anyone who goes poking around in the sewers below.  
  
The fact that Regina keeps such a tight lid on everything that’s not entirely _right_ about the town, making it a perfectly safe and pleasant place to live for all these young families and retired folk out by the country club, just makes Emma more determined to protect her position as Mayor.  Hell, her position and her _life_ , because she had a nightmare the other day about Gold ripping Regina’s heart out of her chest, and then spent five minutes contemplating setting Henry’s fucking book on fire.  
  
When Regina walks in on her checking the clip in her service weapon at seven thirty in the morning, while still half-naked and with a toothbrush dangling from her mouth, she feels like an idiot--but all Regina says is, “Safety on in the house, dear”, with the kind of preternatural calm that suggests that whatever Gold has actually _done_ , Emma just doesn’t know the half of it.  
  
…  
  
For every minute that she’s not fretting about potential attempts on either Regina or Henry’s life, she’s fretting about what now seems like a _seriously_ fucking awful idea, because every hour or so Mary Margaret calls to ask for more specific details on how she can make Christmas go smoothly--”Maybe treat it less like you’re getting a double root canal, and just _get drunk_ , Mary Margaret, like every other person who has to spend Christmas with family members they can’t stand,” Emma finally snaps at her, a little too brusquely--and the closer they get to the date, the more Kathryn shows up unexpectedly in Regina’s office with a few tentative questions of her own.  
  
The only person who isn’t asking anything that is making her teeth itch at the moment is David.  They’ve started meeting up after work every so often, and mostly spend time in that cabin out in the woods where she used to bang Regina when that was a secret.  Her friendship with David isn’t much less secretive, though way more innocent; they drink IPAs and play stupid card games, and it grates that the more time she spends with him, the harder it becomes to think of him as a bad seed, or someone Mary Margaret would be better off without.  
  
He talks about the things he’d do differently in his life, after a few beers, and by the time it’s their third trip out and he stares out onto the lake and says, “Maybe we should start fishing, later, when all that ice thaws; what do you think?”, she realizes that she really doesn’t mind the idea of him being a fixture in her life.  
  
Christmas doesn’t get brought up until it’s almost there, and David gets a kind of cautiously sour look on his face when he says, “My dad’s coming to town.”  
  
“No mom?” Emma asks, glancing at her cards and hiding a pout.  
  
David takes another pull of the bottle of stout he’s drinking and then shakes his head.  “No, she--she died a long time ago.  Right after Kathryn and I got married.  And my dad--he’s been alone ever since.  Drowning himself in work.”  
  
“Do you get along?” Emma asks, because--fuck it; they’re friends now, and when David slaps down three queens and raises his eyebrows at her, she glares at him a little and then collects the entire stack on the table.  “Or--is this more like Regina’s family?”  
  
“I don’t know what Regina’s family is like, but--he’s demanding.  He holds himself to a very high standard and expects everyone else to.  Back when I was in veterinary school, he--just wanted me to become a cardiac surgeon.  You know--go for the best.  Not what you _love_.  Just what’s best.”  
  
Emma manages a wry smile, before dealing out a few more cards.  “Yeah, that sounds like Regina’s mom.”  
  
“You never knew your parents, did you?” David asks, cautiously; the kind way he peers at her, over the rim of his bottle, makes any immediate irritation at the question wash away.  
  
“Nope,” she says, and then nudges his cards towards him.  
  
“You ever wonder what they were like?”  
  
She smiles, after a few seconds; it’s a bittersweet kind of thing, but with the emphasis on sweet.  “I used to, a lot, when I was younger.  You want to believe the best, you know.  That they had to abandon you because they both work for the CIA or the Justice League and they’re trying to save the universe.  But--it’s been a long time.  I haven’t given them much thought since--well.  Since Regina, really.”  
  
“Makes sense,” David says, nodding a few times and then frowning and whistling at his cards.  “This is a terrible hand, Emma.”  
  
“Want to hear something hilarious?” she asks, taking a sip of her own beer--it’s rich and heady, with the afterburn of some sort of whiskey in it, and she’s starting to come around on any latent prejudice she had against beer the more often they do this.  
  
“Yeah, I could use a joke,” David says, but it’s self-aware, not self-pitying, and once more she finds herself liking him more.  It’s irritating, how he just gets in; but part of her just wants to drive by Mary Margaret’s and say, _get over it_ , because...  
  
“Henry thinks that you and Mary Margaret are my parents.  Or well, he _did_.  He had these elaborate theories based on this stupid book and--I mean, it’s a long story, but he was convinced that there was some sort of time travel magic at work and um, yeah.  I’m yours.”  
  
David spills most of what’s left of his beer on the front of his shirt, sputtering it out of his mouth, and then wipes at his face with his sleeve before laughing breathlessly.  “That must be _some_ time travel magic.”  
  
“Four tens--what you got?”  
  
“Nothing that tops that,” he says, with a sigh, collecting the cards and adding them to his pile.  “So--what’s the story?”  
  
“What story?” Emma asks, watching him shuffle the cards a little clumsily with his big man hands.  
  
“Why did Mary Margaret and I give you up?  I mean, were we--good parents, or horrible ones?”  
  
He says it in a way that’s clearly teasing, but there’s an undercurrent of sadness to it that makes Emma’s heart pang, unexpectedly, and after a second she says, “You did it to--save the entire world.  Everyone we know.  I mean, you also kind of dumped me in a tree and were like _later_ , according to the book, but you both loved me _very_ much.”  
  
David grins after a second and then starts flipping cards own onto the table.  “Sounds like you could’ve done worse, in terms of imaginary parents.”  
  
“Oh, yeah,” Emma says, finishing her beer and putting it down on the ground.  “ _So_ much worse.”  
  
…  
  
The call comes from the diner; it’s Granny, who is cool and business-like as always, with a short, “Sheriff--”  
  
“Deputy,” she says, reaching for her gun and her badge and ignoring the prickling at the back of her neck.  “What is it, Mrs. Lucas?”  
  
“You’ll want to be getting out to _Game of Thorns_ as quickly as you can, and while you’re moving, you’ll want to do that thing that cops do to get an ambulance out there as soon as possible.”  
  
It’s seven in the morning, long before any of the shops on Main would open up, and Granny will have been the first person there.  “What is it?”  
  
“You’d better just come and see, Deputy,” Granny says, before hanging up.  
  
Air sinking in her lungs like a dead weight, Emma reaches for her hat and crams it onto her head, before thumbing down her second speed dial and getting a sleepy Graham on the line.  
  
“There’s been an incident at _Game of Thorns_ ; I’m about to investigate, can you call Regina and make sure that she understands she was the first person to know about this?  I just want a few seconds on scene before she--”  
  
“Got it,” Graham says, disconnecting before she can get more out.    
  
Pocketing her phone, she runs the rest of the way.  
  
...  
  
  
The display windows have been shattered, and Granny and Ruby are huddled together outside, the latter looking at her with some measure of horror.  
  
“We didn’t want to go inside, disturb the scene, but Moe French lives on the top floor of the shop--”  
  
Emma reaches for her flashlight and says, “Yeah, I know.”  
  
The door to the shop, window shattered as well, swings open with the gentles of creaks, as if inviting her to step inside.  Splinters of glass litter the floor, and she feels her breath catch at what awaits inside:  
  
Hundreds and hundreds of roses, petals stripped off, leaving only thorny stalks scattered across the floor.    
  
So far, this is just destruction of property, but she’s with Granny; calling an ambulance wasn’t a drastic choice after seeing what’s been done to the shop, and how the man who runs it is nowhere to be seen.  
  
Despite knowing she won’t find anything, she glances at the register and finds it untouched; neat stacks of tens and twenties line the drawer, and she pushes it shut again, shuddering at the small _ding_ it produces when it closes.  That leaves a door at the back to explore, and she puts the flashlight in her mouth, reaching for her gun and then releasing that door’s handle as well.  
  
It takes some force, to push it all the way open, but when it does, she takes her flashlight out of her mouth again and uses it as a makeshift laser sight, scanning up the stairs to a landing that seems empty.  
  
Empty, but there’s a streak of something on the white wallpaper at the very end and she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath.  
  
Her phone vibrates in her pocket and she ignores it, taking the steps two at a time and aiming the beam of her flashlight at the wall.  Her stomach twists with the absolute nothing in it; breakfast is something she has at eight, but probably not today.  The brownish, splattered streak on the wall starts on one corner and seems to reach around it, and with a few more steps, carefully checking every corner of the hallway, she sees where it ends.  
  
Her legs start shaking before her stomach revolts, but when it happens it’s acute, and it’s only through the sheer act of turning away and covering her mouth with her hands that she doesn’t throw up all over the crime scene.  Before she can do anything else, Graham calls out her name and she lets go of a sob that alerts him to her presence.  
  
His feet pound the staircase, and he appears at her side in no time, the same horrified grimace passing over his face, but he’s been in this job longer than she has and he’s seen worse things--perhaps not done to humans, but done in _general_.  Somehow, he’s still thinking about the job, and so he leans down and reaches for Moe French and checks for a pulse.  
  
“He’s alive.”  
  
Emma doesn’t manage much more than a noise in response, and forces herself to stare at the ceiling.  “He’s--okay.”  
  
“Did you check the bedroom?”  
  
“No, I--” Emma starts to say, but the urge to retch is still too powerful, and she closes her eyes.  “No.”  
  
Graham disappears from sight for a few moments and then comes back, putting a hand on her shoulder.  “The ambulance is outside.  Why don’t you get some fresh air and see what you can find out downstairs and I’ll stay here, okay?”  
  
She nods and lets her feet carry her back down, leaden.  It’s only when she reaches the front room, boots trudging through all of those destroyed roses, that it occurs to her that there’s a crowd outside and she’s going to have to make a statement.  
  
What the hell can she possibly say?  
  
It was Gold.   She knows it; Regina will know it.  Graham will probably believe them if they say it, but they have _nothing_.  Just a bloodied, bruised man upstairs, a man within an inch of his life, and a shattered shop.  
  
The shop’s front door creaks open again and then Regina is in front of her, wan and urgent, asking, “Is he--”  
  
“He’s alive,” Emma repeats, and then just stares at a particular patch of red on Regina’s scarf.  It’s a cleaner red than the blood upstairs, than the crusty cuts on Moe French’s face and arms.  It’s--  
  
“Hey,” Regina says, snapping her fingers in Emma’s face.  “Emma, what is it?”  
  
Emma closes her eyes for a second and then says, “Is this--is this how this is going to be from now on?  I mean, who’s next?  Who--Mary Margaret?  Or Kathryn, because she’s _your_ friend?  Is he going to--”  
  
She gets pulled into a hug that’s more like a stranglehold, as two EMTs rush by them with a stretcher, responding to Graham’s quiet, “Up here, please”.  It all still feels vaguely like a dream, one in which there are only wilting roses and streaks of blood, like little splatters of red all around her.  
  
“We have nothing on him,” Emma says, after a few seconds of just breathing in Regina’s hair and neck and _everything_.  “We can’t pin this on him.  He’ll argue that it’s his shop, that he has no vested interest in coming after the guy who runs it.  He’ll--”  
  
Regina pulls away briefly, cupping both of her cheeks, and then says, “Do you trust me?”  
  
“With _what_?” Emma sort of exhales.  The sound of straps being tightened reaches them from upstairs, as does a quiet count to a lift.  
  
“Do you _trust me_ to make this go away?”  
  
Emma hesitates and then says, “If this is you saying you can swing harder than he can--”  
  
“Not harder,” Regina says, all the muscles by her eyes tightening for a moment.  “But perhaps with better aim.”  
  
“Is this... is what you’re planning on doing illegal?”  
  
The fact that it takes Regina a second to answer is the kind of thing that would have worried her a day ago; an _hour_ ago; hell, fifteen minutes ago.  “I don’t think so.”  
  
“You don’t _think_ \--”  
  
“Emma,” Regina says, a little more sharply, as Moe French gets carried out of the room again, Graham trailing after the EMTs with the smallest of nods to Regina in passing, and Emma takes a shuddering breath and looks at her.  “How far are you willing to let him go?”  
  
...  
  
It’s ultimately the only question that matters.  
  
She spends the rest of the day filing insurance claims for Moe, just because he’s not in a position to do it himself, and wondering if she just landed herself in Regina’s pocket, the way half the town has.  A favor, Regina will call it, her turning a blind eye.  The kind of favor she once did for Graham, but in reverse.    
  
The alternative for Emma is having to make good on her deal with Gold, however, and so she just sighs and closes her eyes, letting her blue ballpoint clatter onto the desk.  
  
Graham puts a mug of hot coffee down next to her and says, “They’ll pay up.”  
  
“Yeah, I don’t doubt that they will; it’s not like Mr. French left the door unlocked,” Emma says, reaching for the coffee and just letting the mug warm her hands.  
  
“We could bring him in for questioning,” Graham offers, quietly.  
  
“I’m not in the mood for being his afternoon entertainment.  He won’t give it up.  He’ll have an airtight alibi of some kind.  Short of finding that Moe has cane marks all over him--”  
  
Graham exhales and then shakes his head.  “Politics.  I can’t believe how far some people will go for power.”  
  
Emma just nods, because honestly, this would be so much easier if _power_ was all it was about.  
  
…  
  
Given that she’s opted not to go to Gold, it doesn’t surprise her that Gold comes to her instead, ambling across the walkway outside the station and putting on a look of horror at this _investment_ across the street, the flower shop now covered in yellow tape.  
  
“What a tragedy,” he says, almost pouting at Emma.  “A waste of perfectly good floristry, and nearly a waste of a perfectly good florist to boot.”  
  
“If you think that beating the crap out of Belle’s father is going to get you any closer--”  
  
He widens his eyes and points at himself.  “What, _me_?  I’m shocked you’d even suggest it, dearie.  Or that you think a frail, old man such as myself--” and he twirls his cane, as if to highlight his shortcomings, “--could even overpower a man such as Moe French.  An honorable man.  Willing to sell his _daughter_ out for a reduction in rent.”  
  
Emma stares at him silently for a few seconds, and then says, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”  
  
“I’m sure you don’t.  I’m sure in Regina’s version, I _pressured_ the girl into dating me, hm?  I’m sure that she told you all about how I wouldn’t give up until she gave in to me.  It’s a far more attractive tale than the one where her own father _made_ her entertain me because it would be best for the _entire_ family.  That one, you see, might actually make me look like I had _good intentions_ , and where would that leave your darling wife?”  
  
Her jaw tightens, as he stares at her with barely repressed mirth and the underpinning anger that guides his actions, and after a few moments she looks away.  “The fact that her dad wasn’t the greatest guy doesn’t excuse what _you_ did to her.”  
  
“Which was what, exactly?” he asks, more sharply now.  “Did she go into any details about my supposed crimes?  Or were they just that I was... demanding?  Demanding, not always _easy_ to live with, not happy when things didn’t go my way?  Because, _dearie_ , I can think of someone else that that description would apply to.”  
  
The little red balloon in her mind swells, but somehow within stays in her grasp, and she shoots Gold a look.  “I’d back down, now.”  
  
“I’m not sure what you imagine there is to for me to back down _from_ , Deputy,” he says, coolly, before settling his cane on the ground again and walking towards her, close enough for her to smell his cologne, a powerful and repugnant scent all at once.  “Send my regards to your wife.”  
  
She doesn’t move until he’s gone from sight, and then feels around for her phone and stares at it for a few moments.  Calling Regina and complaining about her interpretation of what it is exactly that is _need to know_ in this entire situation, though, won’t change a damn thing about the fact that Gold has dragged her into the middle of this conflict, and something’s going to give sooner rather than later.  
  
She pockets her phone again and just heads for the Bug, and tries not to think about what she gave Regina license to do, earlier in the day.  
  
…  
  
She’s reading a James Patterson novel on Henry’s bed, with Henry playing Lego Batman on his DS, when Regina finally comes home, looking utterly drained and just hovering in the doorway for a moment.  
  
Emma swallows what remains of her annoyance at being the hapless idiot running interference between two people who, despite _not_ being in law enforcement, seem to have way more control over anything that happens in the town she’s serving, and just pats the bed.  “Join us.”  
  
A blazer gets deposited over the back of Henry’s desk chair, and Regina awkwardly settles between them, staring straight at the ceiling with an unreadable expression.  
  
“You okay, Mom?” Henry asks, barely glancing at her.  
  
Emma closes her eyes for a second and forgets about all the things she would change about her wife if she could, and just reaches for her hand, which makes Regina lose the almost deadened calm on her face; it contorts a little, full of pain and regret, and then she just says, “Yes, dear.  I’m fine.”  
  
It’s not even close to the truth, but they’re giving Regina something to come home to now, and that will be enough to stop her from going too far.  
  
…  
  
The Mirror, the next day, runs a story on Gold’s wife and son, and Emma knows she doesn’t even want to read what it says, because truth or not, Regina dug all of this up just to _wound_ the man, in a way that’s so personal that it makes the Moe French situation look like brutal but meaningless larceny.  
  
She flips to the sports pages instead, and just says, “Want me to help you shop for Christmas dinner?”  
  
Regina takes a slow sip of her coffee, but otherwise looks more like herself again, as if now that the bad thing has been _done_ , there isn’t anything for her to feel conflicted about.  “If you think you can brave White Rabbit’s this close to Christmas, I could use your help carrying things.”  
  
“Are we going to hold hands while you push a shopping cart around?” Emma asks, managing a small smile.  “You know--photo op, and all?”  
  
Something odd happens to Regina’s face, in the next few seconds; and then she says, “Daniel used to move the cart around and keep the list, and I’d wander around the store collecting things.  Until I--well, until I was very pregnant with _you_ , dear.  Then he insisted that to carry you to term, I’d better just stay off my feet; or gravity might make me lose you long before you were ready to come out.”  
  
Henry stares at her with a curious kind of horror and then asks, “Does that... happen?  Do babies ever just fall out of pregnant ladies when they stand up?”  
  
Regina laughs, cupping the mug to her chest.  “No, dear.  Your father was--well, he enjoyed teasing me.  And waiting on me, near the end.  I used to have the most bizarre cravings...”  
  
“Like what?” Henry asks, flipping his book shut-- _Moby Dick,_ which is a step up from other types of fairy tales, at least--and looking at her with open interest.  “Was it a lot of cinnamon?  Because I love cinnamon and you hate it, so maybe you wanted it when you were pregnant because _I_ was making you like it?”  
  
“Oh, far worse than cinnamon,” Regina says, crossing her legs at the ankle, and there’s something about her right now that’s both so _hot powerful Mayor lady_ and yet _wife and mother_ that Emma glances at the clock and wonders if they can somehow manage to _do_ stuff before they both have to go to work.  “Let’s see, once I made him go get me--sardines, and when he came back with them we scoured the kitchen for what I wanted to have those sardines _with_ , only to settle on ketchup and pickles.”  
  
Emma puts the remains of her toast back on her plate and says, “ _Jesus_ , Regina, what the hell?  I’m _eating_ here.”  
  
Henry looks a little green in the face and then examines his own plate.  “That’s... really gross, Mom.”  
  
“I completely agree,” Regina says, before placidly adding, “I did think it was quite a miracle that you came out normal, since so many signs pointed to the fact that I was carrying a little _alien_ in me.”  
  
Henry grins at that and then looks at Emma.  “So if you had a baby, what do you think you’ll want to eat, ... Ma?”  
  
Regina arches an eyebrow at the word, but every time he does it, it’s a little less forceful, and eventually she figures they’ll both just gloss over it.  
  
“Not sure,” she says, with a shrug.  “There’s not really any way to tell.”  
  
“Your … mother’s dining habits are terrible enough _without_ pregnancy, Henry.  I’m not sure this is something that we want to find out,” Regina says, smirking at Emma slightly from behind her mug.  
  
Emma just stares back for a few seconds, and then has to lower her eyes and study her toast because--seriously, what the _fuck_ is going on?  Between the Gold thing and Regina having normal conversations about her _life_ and being all … inclusive, it’s like the end of the world is coming.  
  
“I think we do,” Henry says, firmly.  “I want to know, and also, I’d like a brother or a sister.”  
  
“Oh, you would, would you?” Emma asks, before reaching forward and flicking him in the nose.  
  
He laughs.  “Yeah!  I think that it would be awesome to see one grow in you like this giant _lump_ and then eventually it’s just a baby.  It’s so weird.  But I think it’s awesome.  And I’d be a good older brother, because I can tell the baby all about how you sometimes argue but it doesn’t mean anything, so um, there’s no need to be scared.”  
  
Emma opens her mouth and then closes it again, when she can’t think of anything sensible to say to him that isn’t just a fond _oh, kid_.    
  
Regina just smiles and says, “Well, this is all very hypothetical, dear.  Don’t get too excited.”  
  
Emma tries not to look too happy about that fact and just pushes away from the table.  “Yeah, your mom’s not going to spontaneously knock me up or anything--”  
  
“Why not?” Henry asks, sounding affronted.  “My dad and my mom made a baby together out of love and stuff, so why can’t you?”  
  
Emma freezes mid-step towards the doorway and then turns to helplessly look at Regina, who is looking back at her with obvious amusement.  “Yes, Emma, why not?” she then says, sweetly.  “Perhaps you can explain yourself to Henry.”  
  
“Uh--” Emma starts, and then tries to widen her eyes to Regina just enough for her to understand that this is _not happening_ , without actually looking panicked.  
  
Regina finishes her coffee, deposits her mug--handle to the right, of course--in the dishwasher, and then steps into her space and squeezes her ass in passing.  
  
“ _Welcome to motherhood_ ,” she then says, which is probably the simultaneously bitchiest and nicest thing she’s ever said.  
  
…  
  
The horror of the ensuing conversation is still at the front of her mind two days later, when Mary Margaret stops by the station and declares, as if she’s being shipped out to the Battle of Verdun, that she’s _ready_.  
  
Emma raises an eyebrow and says, “Did you bring a bayonet?”  
  
“No, should I have?” Mary Margaret asks, seemingly serious, before rolling her eyes and saying, “Emma, come on, I’m just a little nervous.  I’d really _like_ for Regina to like me, so--”  
  
“Yeah, we’ll do what we can to make that happen,” Emma says, shutting down her computer and then wrapping herself up tightly in a coat and scarf.  “Anyway, _thank you_ for doing this; I seriously don’t think that I could’ve spent an entire evening in a room with just Henry and Regina right now, given that he still can’t really look me in the eyes--”  
  
“Oh, Emma,” Mary Margaret says, in that way that’s both encouraging and pitying.  “I’m sure it went _fine_.  How wrong could it have gone?”  
  
“No, I was--well, I made sure that I kept it factual, and not like--about sex, you know.  I mean, not about sex being _amazing_ , because he doesn’t need to know that.  And I think he already kind of knows about sex in general terms, so I mostly just had to talk about how boys have junk--”  
  
That earns her a swat in the arm.  “I _really_ hope you didn’t call it that.”  
  
“ _No_ , I used the _real words_ ,” Emma says, sourly.  “Anyway, so the more I talked about how boys have _that_ and girls don’t and that all clicks sometimes, the more he looked at me like I was crazy or just making stuff up--”  
  
Mary Margaret chuckles and links their arms together.  “Sweetie, I’m sure that the talk is awkward either way.  Focus on the bright side!”  
  
“The bright side of talking about how men have _junk_ with my kid,” Emma says, directing a caustic look at her.  “What exactly is the bright side here?”  
  
“Regina _trusted_ you enough to let you handle it,” Mary Margaret says.  
  
Oh.  
  
“You know, for two people who really don’t like each other much, you sure understand each other well,” Emma mutters.  
  
Mary Margaret just elbows her in the side, and then takes another deep breath.  “Okay.  Let’s go.  Let’s do this.  I’m totally ready.”  
  
…  
  
She could kiss Kathryn Nolan.  
  
Kathryn, who is of course the only actually well-adjusted and adult person invited to this shindig, somehow makes the entire thing just _work_.  As soon as she arrives, she pulls Mary Margaret aside and tells her in no uncertain terms that they are going to be civil to each other, which results in Mary Margaret tearing up and apologizing profusely for _everything_ and then--and this is where it gets good--both of them toasting to David being a jerk with some eggnog.  
  
“Ah, feminism,” Regina says, wearing another one of those hot-as-fuck apron get-ups before disappearing into the kitchen, which is probably as much to do with how the ham won’t cook itself as it is with limiting her exposure to a situation that will bring her claws out.  
  
Henry just seems thrilled by having all of these people in the house and the stack of presents under the tree, which are mostly for him; Emma had protested the idea of Kathryn and Mary Margaret needing to buy him stuff, but they’d seemed excited about it no matter what she said.  It’s probably biological clocks, or something, she thinks, staring down at her own stomach for a few moments before taking another sip of some really effing _excellent_ nog, even if that’s just her own opinion.  
  
They break out a game of Monopoly--a Mills favorite, for obvious reasons--and Regina wanders in and out, whispering instructions to Henry, who nods with determination and, after about an hour, ends up cleaning house to the point where Emma actually laughs and says, “Kid, you just made me _homeless_.”  
  
“It’s just a game,” he says, before holding out his tiny hand and saying, “Maybe mortgage your railroad so you can pay me rent.”  
  
Mary Margaret shoots her a look that suggests that she thinks genes are at work here, but as soon as the board game goes away, Henry’s happy to just watch a few Christmas movies.  He ends up settled on the couch next to Kathryn, who has stories about watching _It’s a Wonderful Life_ with her brother and her mother, years ago, and Emma finally starts to relax a little at the idea that everyone can actually _be_ in this house without blood being shed.  
  
“Can I do _anything_ to help?” Mary Margaret asks Regina, almost begging to be permitted to prove her worth, and after a few moments Regina says, “You can poach some pears.”  
  
“I _definitely_ can,” Mary Margaret says, firmly, before rolling up the sleeves on her red and green cardigan and manning a chopping board that’s as far away as possible from Regina while still being in the kitchen.  
  
Regina shoots Emma a dry look, and after a second Emma just steps in behind her and peers at everything that’s bubbling away on the stove and murmurs, “Lot of good food here.”  
  
“Of course.  Were you expecting something else?” Regina responds, crabby in a way that seems food-stress related, and not necessarily a dig at Mary Margaret’s presence in her house.  
  
“No, but you know how I feel about good food,” Emma says, even more softly.  
  
Regina barely reacts with movement, but then sort of hisses, “Get out of here, unless you want to traumatize your best friend forever.”  
  
Emma chuckles, and heads to the living room again, pausing in the foyer only long enough to text a really quick _happy holidays--beer on the 27th?_ at David, because... well.  
  
It’s the season, and nobody should feel completely alone.  
  
…  
  
The doorbell rings, right as Regina’s serving persimmon pudding with some creme anglaise, and Regina looks up with a frown.  
  
“Carolers?” Kathryn asks.  
  
Regina shakes her head.  “Town ordinance 9738-B forbids caroling on Christmas Eve and Day; we passed it five years ago after some children got yelled at by unamused senior citizens.”  
  
Emma doesn’t really know why it’s both amusing and hot that Regina knows all of this off the top of her head, but regardless, she pushes away from the table and says, “I’ll get it.  Lots of cream for me, please--make it _swim_.”  
  
“Yes, dear,” Regina says, dryly, before hovering over Mary Margaret and asking, “And for you, Miss … Mary Margaret?”  
  
Mary Margaret only _barely_ looks like she’s worried she’ll get stabbed in the eye with the knife Regina’s wielding over her baked goods.  
  
Really, there’s so much progress being made in one night that Emma is almost high off it, which is why she’s not at all prepared for what happens when she pulls the front door open and a blast of near-Arctic cold hits her square in the face.  
  
“Hello, darling,” Cora Mills says, black coat buttoned up to her chin and silvery buttons glimmering in the porch light.  “ _Merry_ Christmas.”


	24. Chapter 24

“Pretty sure we scrapped _Hell_ from our Christmas card destination list this year,” Emma says, after a few moments.  “What are you doing here, Cora?”  
  
“Why, I’m here to see my daughter and my grandson, of course,” Cora says, barely batting an eyelash.  In fact, even the extremities-numbing cold outside seems to not be affecting her.    
  
She may actually be immortal, Emma thinks, stupidly, before wincing when more cold air blasts into the house.  “Yeah, well, they don’t want to see _you_ and you knew that before you showed up--”  
  
“ _Regina, darling,”_ Cora bellows.  
  
Emma wonders if she looks as thoroughly outplayed as she feels.  A few seconds later, the tentative click of heels sounds behind her and Regina--and oh, there it is, that voice that screams _I’ll never get over being sixteen when you’re here_ \--just says, “... Mother?”  
  
“ _There_ you are.  Your … _friend_ is just giving me the hardest time here, and I do so _hate_ to intrude, but I came all this way and surely you won’t let me leave without at least _seeing_ you and Henry?” Cora says, smiling at Regina in a way that makes Emma feel like she’s about to witness a cannibalistic maternal ritual that there is no escaping from.  
  
Regina’s footsteps are slow, but back to measured, and Emma only jolts a little when a hand is wrapped around her waist and pulls her in closer.  “My _friend_.  Really, Mother?”  
  
The eyeroll is definitely hereditary.  When it’s done, Cora says, “Yes, your _partner_.  I’m so sorry.  I try so hard not to be petty, but Miss Swan makes it _so_ difficult.”  
  
Emma opens her mouth, but stops short of saying anything when Regina’s nails carefully dig into her side, just for a second.  
  
“What are you doing here, Mother?” Regina asks, in this even tone of voice that almost masks how unsettled she is.  “I thought I made it perfectly clear that after what you tried to do--”  
  
Cora waves a hand between them, as if brushing off a spell.  “Regina, darling.  Bygones.  I _understand_ that I should have just told you about Miss Swan’s activities--”  
  
“The ones you made up, you mean,” Regina says, more sharply than Emma has ever heard her in Cora’s presence.  It’s heartening, in an unexpected way.  
  
The affronted look that passes over Cora’s face is ingenious; the woman should be on the stage somewhere.  “Well, I only know what I _saw_ , darling.  As did you.  Regardless, I merely hoped to let you know _gently_ that perhaps--she’s not who you thought she was.”  
  
“No, she’s not,” Regina says, after a few seconds, before smiling almost vindictively.  “She’s _so_ much more than that, and frankly, I’m not sure I ever would have realized it if you hadn’t tried to destroy _our_ relationship the way you attempted to undermine my relationship with _Daniel_ for years on end.”  
  
Something about the inviting guilelessness of Cora’s demeanor slips, and those silvery buttons gleam a little bit sharper as she steps in closer.  “Come now, darling.  Not that _boy_ again.  It’s a tragedy he’s gone, but it’s been years--”  
  
“And I will mourn him for the rest of my _life_.  Just as I’ll mourn Daddy,” Regina snaps.  
  
“Daddy,” Cora says, before smiling thinly.  “Yes, you were always so fond of your father.  A man who wanted to run the stables on _charity_.  No ambition, no business sense, no _drive_.  He just wanted to ride.”  
  
“There’s nothing wrong with--”  
  
“He was a _fool,_ ” Cora bites out, almost as if she’ll be stamping her foot on the ground in a second; a middle-aged woman throwing a tantrum, Emma thinks, and discreetly rubs at the back of Regina’s thigh for a few seconds.  “A sentimental, doddering fool.  If I hadn’t pushed you to go to university--”  
  
It’s a familiar argument, albeit one that has mostly taken place with snide, hushed whispers before now, and Emma opts to ignore _both_ of them and look out past where Cora is standing.  A black town car, tail lights still glowing red in the dark, is idling there; and there looks to be someone else in it, which is enough to make her say, “Cora--why are you _really_ here?”  
  
“ _To see my family_ ,” Cora says, but it’s more of a snarl than an explanation at this point.  
  
“Who’s with you?  Who did you bring?”  
  
Regina stiffens in a way that probably isn’t visible, but then narrows her eyes at her mother.  “Tell me you didn’t show up at _my house_ , to disturb _my family_ over Christmas with some idiotic _suitor_ that will--”  
  
“No, darling.  You do fine attracting _idiotic_ suitors without my assistance,” Cora says, panning over to Emma briefly and smiling viciously.  “I want you to meet the man who will help you make the leap from this--silly little town to _real_ politics.”  
  
“On Christmas _Eve_ ,” Regina says, so tightly that the words squeeze out in a higher pitch; the kind she must’ve used back when she still let herself be reduced to screaming and crying by this woman.  
  
“He just so happens to be in town, darling, or believe me, I would’ve attempted this introduction in a more... hospitable setting.  His son lives here; pet store owner, or some such thing.  But really, you’ll--”  
  
“Oh my God,” Emma says, before Cora can say more.  “You mean David’s father.”  
  
Regina stills utterly for a few seconds, and then says, “My best friend’s father-in-law.”  
  
Cora smiles after a second.  “Yes.   _Quite_.  We’ve been acquainted for some time now.  Ever since you took me to the club a few years ago, because _Emma_ here couldn’t be bothered to show up in town for the holiday season--”  
  
It makes her wince, but there isn’t much to say in response, because Cora isn’t _wrong_.  Things have changed, but it doesn’t make those actions--and it’s only now that she can see how callous they were--go away.  
  
“--and we were introduced by, oh, that delightful man who owns that trinkets store.  I bought a bird cage there, once.  Mind you, I’m still looking for the appropriate type of bird to keep in it,” Cora finishes.  
  
“Try a vulture,” Emma mutters, before Regina can stop her.  “Pretty sure you’d have a lot in common.”  
  
Cora ignores her fully.  “Albert really is a _wonderful_ man, darling.  And this whole--lesbian phase of yours--”  
  
“Lesbian _phase?”_ Emma echoes, before looking at Regina for--well, shit, she has no idea.  Permission to throttle her mother, probably.    
  
Regina’s face is unreadable, until she closes her eyes and says, “I’d like for you to leave now, Mother.”  
  
“ _Regina_ ,” Cora exhales, as if the very idea that she’d be turned away has never occurred to her.  It probably actually hasn’t; Regina has been cowed by her for so many years now, so desperate not to lose the _one_ relative she had left, that actual rejection hadn’t been an option.  
  
But, and Emma feels it in the way that Regina’s hand clings to her side, and the way that Regina’s shoulder brushes against hers, the game they’re playing has changed, and Cora’s approval and presence in their life...  
  
“You spent my whole life making my father feel like he could never be good enough; like no matter _what_ he tried to give to you, or to our family, it would never meet your expectations--and you’re doing the same thing to me.  You always have, actually, and because I have never wanted to let you down, I’ve let you do it... but I have others to think about now,” Regina says, in a brittle kind of way, as if she can only say this _once_ and even then, Cora better not interject.  
  
The claw-like hand that gets pointed at Emma with a hissed, “ _Her_ \--” is scary as hell, but Regina ignores it altogether.  
  
“You will never-- _never_ make Henry feel like that.  If I have to take out a restraining order against you--”  
  
Cora actually takes a physical step backwards, and looks at Regina as if she’s never seen her before.  
  
“You _wouldn’t_ ,” she then breathes.  
  
Regina takes a deep breath, and says, “Please … don’t _make_ me.”  
  
Emma doesn’t dare to move, even though they’re both starting to shake in how cold it is, and Henry’s curious questions about what’s going on are loud and clear in the background--but Kathryn knows enough about Cora Mills to keep him away, and she probably has a willing accomplice in Mary Margaret.  
  
For a long moment, wind lashing between them, nothing happens at all, and then Cora briefly looks at the ground before shaking her head.  
  
“I have had such high hopes for you,” she then sighs, but it’s with the kind of finality that allows Regina to relax a little, to let go of that rigidly perfect, untouchable posture that she only adopts when her mother is near.  
  
“Perhaps one day, you’ll see that I’ve met any hopes you should have had for me,” Regina says, before taking a step inside of the house and pulling Emma along with her.  
  
They don’t say goodbye, which means that the closing of the door is the last exchange they have with Cora, and all it does is shut her out.  Regina stares at the white wood for a long few seconds, and then takes a deep breath and visibly pulls herself out of the moment, as far as she can go, and after hesitating briefly Emma just grabs her by the arm and says, “Take a few.  I can entertain, or distract, or whatever it is you need.  Okay?  Unless you’d rather not be alone--”  
  
She gets silenced with a hand just sweeping by her lips, in passing, and then Regina heads up the stairs by herself, one dragging foot at a time, before disappearing into the bedroom and closing the door behind her.  
  
The piano music starts just a few seconds later, and Emma sighs softly, before heading back to the dining room.  There, three anxious faces look back at her.  
  
“Wrong address,” she says, which absolutely nobody will believe, but covers everything that she wants to say on the subject anyway.   
  
…  
  
Cora’s visits are normally followed by pretty desperate sex, but this time, at one in the morning, Regina just curls onto her side and stares hollowly at the curtained window, as if she’s picturing the apple tree beyond it.  
  
“If you want to talk about it--” Emma offers, quiet and easy now that it’s dark and Henry’s gone to bed.  
  
Regina sighs, the barest puff of air against Emma’s upper arm, and then she says, “I used to be terrified that I’d end up like her; that it was only Daniel’s presence in my life that stopped me from being her.  And when he died--”  
  
Emma waits for more, but it’s not forthcoming, and after a moment she shimmies down the bed until she can crane her neck and look Regina in the eyes.  “You’re a _great_ mother.”  
  
“I expect the world of him as well,” Regina admits, a little disconsolately.  “Not because--not because he’ll _ever_ let me down, but because he’s so bright--so adventurous.  There’s such genuine curiosity about him that--”  
  
“That--you’d hate him if he just wanted to work in bicycle repair for the rest of his life?” Emma checks.  
  
Regina looks at her sharply at that.  “ _Bicycle repair_?  What the hell kind of profession is that?”  
  
“Well, I guess the real question is--does it matter?  Do you need him to be a doctor, or a famous mathematician, or would you be fine with him … I don’t know, just wanting to do something less brainy for the rest of his life?”   
  
Regina doesn’t immediately answer, and Emma sighs and reaches for her hair, runs a few fingers through it.  
  
“You’re making this way harder than it is, Regina.  Okay?  His father trained _horses_ , his father was _employed by your parents_ and you loved the hell out of him.  And I’m just this badly tempered maniac who runs around tackling people--”  
  
“ _Supposedly,_ you’re not so much anymore,” Regina says, with just the hint of a smile.  
  
“What I mean is--you love us.  So why wouldn’t you love him no matter what he did?”  
  
Regina’s eyes close, for a few seconds, and then she says, “I’ve been thinking about the stables.”  
  
“The ones where--the ones that were in your family?”   
  
“They still are, dear.  They’re … mine, actually.  But given what happened to Daniel, and how much they reminded me of my father--I’ve never wanted to reopen them.”  Regina pauses, and then says, tentatively, “Recently, however, I’ve been thinking that I’d really like to teach Henry how to ride.”  
  
“I think he’d love that,” Emma says, after a few seconds.  “I mean, in that stupid book of his, everyone rides horses--I think you’re actually super accomplished at it, you know.  The Evil Queen, anyway.”  
  
Regina smiles after a few moments.  “Well, in every fantasy lies a grain of truth, I suppose.”  
  
“Do you have a lot of medals and trophies?” Emma asks, shifting onto her side.   
  
“Oh, yes.  Boxes full,” Regina says, in a way that manages to be void of arrogance.  “Riding was my life, until I found something more meaningful to do with it.”  
  
“Okay, the sheer number of sex jokes I can make right now--”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes, but then looks at her probingly anyway.  “All I meant is that I’m not … proposing this because I think he _needs_ to know more about his father.  Riding is something I loved long before I loved Daniel.”  
  
“I know,” Emma says, and then smiles faintly.  “Hey, maybe you can teach me as well.”  
  
It earns her a look that suggests that Regina thinks that it’ll be easier to teach Mary Margaret how to fly, and she files that one in the box of _ignore, focus on the nice things she does,_ which carries them over into Christmas morning.  
  
…  
  
Henry’s haul for the year is spectacular--all sorts of comics-related crap, and a chemistry set that he can practice with; it’s a gift that makes Regina perk up unexpectedly, which will make Mary Margaret sleep easier for the next twelve months--and Emma knows they’ve raised a good kid when he just seems really happy about it, rather than like he _deserves_ to get a whole bunch of stuff.  
  
They have a long morning in pyjamas, which is how Christmas has been for a few years now, but somehow it feels more relaxed than it’s ever done before.  Emma isn’t thinking about how many days before she’s out on the road again, and Regina isn’t wondering--absently or otherwise--how many strangers she’ll be trying to nail while ‘working’.  Instead, they’re just having cocoa together and watching Henry’s new animated Batman blu-rays.  
  
That the idea of this, every single day for the rest of her life, used to scare the crap out of her seems so ridiculous now, and she says as much to Regina when they’re taking a quick shower together before heading out to Daniel’s grave--a tradition that neither she nor Henry have ever been involved in before now, but Regina asks it so casually that seems almost like it _isn’t_ a big deal.  
  
She has soap in her eyes, and rubs it in further by accident, and then says, “I think this has been probably the best Christmas of my life.  Even with Gold lurking in the background and your mother showing up, this has been pretty--”  
  
“Awesome?” Regina supplies, because Henry has a new favorite word and it’s growing on all of them.  
  
Emma chuckles, and then tips her head back into the spray and prods Regina in the stomach.  “You’repretty awesome yourself, Madam Mayor.”  
  
That earns her a sigh.  “ _Really_?”  
  
“Well, _sometimes_ , when you’re not being a total spoilsport,” Emma amends.  
  
“You wouldn’t like me if I wasn’t a total spoilsport,” Regina counters, gently backing her up against the shower wall.  
  
“How would you know?  You’ve never _not_ been--” Emma starts, but Regina kisses her, slow and deep, to the point where her toes and fingers all start to curl at once, and she barely even notices that they’re not under the spray anymore and the bathroom’s on the chilly side.  
  
“Okay, this is definitely the least spoil-sporty you’ve ever been--and I’m going on the record as a fan,” Emma declares, when Regina finally pulls back, tugging on her bottom lip and then letting it softly snap into place.  
  
“Perhaps I’m growing as a person,” Regina says, so dryly that Emma laughs  unwillingly, before pulling her back in for another kiss.  
  
…  
  
They’re almost at the cemetery when Regina reaches for Emma’s hand, tucking it into her own pocket, and says, “Something Cora said, last night.”  
  
“Which awful part?” Emma asks.  
  
Henry’s darting through the snow a few feet ahead of them; the cemetery grounds are mostly clear of snow, but anyone wishing to go there in this weather would probably drive, not walk along the wooded paths that lead to the side entrance.  Something about the outing is very ritualistic, though, and Emma’s not going to intervene because she’s worried her boots might never recover from trudging through this much muck.  
  
“The part where she talked about who introduced her to--Albert Nolan,” Regina says, quietly enough for Henry not to hear.  
  
“Oh.  Yeah, you caught that too, huh?”  
  
Regina says nothing, for a few minutes, and then says, “I wouldn’t be surprised if those _pictures_ were all his idea; one he planted with someone else interested in destroying our relationship, albeit for different reasons.  Cora--well, she’s many things, but subtle in her manipulations?  Not so much.  She’s confrontational, demonstrative, _deliberate_.  This kind of backhanded torment...”  
  
“I don’t think we’ll ever know,” Emma says, when it’s clear that Regina’s just staring at the ground and thinking harder.  “But does it really matter, when they’re both shitty people who have done shitty things to us?”  
  
Regina’s mouth darts in and out of a smile, and then she exhales slowly, her breath a mist in the cold air.  “No.  It doesn’t.”  
  
“That article you ran, on Gold--what are the chances he’ll give up?”  
  
Regina shrugs slowly.  “I’d say that editorial signals the end of his chances at my office, but--much like what he did to _Game of Thorns,_ it’s a warning shot.  It lets him know that I have huge reserves of information at my disposal and I won’t hesitate to use them against him.  This--won’t stop him from coming after me, but it will force him to at least consider the repercussions of going further.”  
  
Emma closes her eyes at the memory of finding Moe French, and can’t help a shudder.  “If that’s the warning shot, what’s the main event?”  
  
Regina doesn’t answer, and Emma realizes after a few seconds that the only thing that follows from an attack on someone Regina is _protecting_ is an attack on someone Regina...  
  
“Oh,” she says, when it feels like she should say _something_.  
  
Ahead of them, Henry pushes open the cemetery gates, and Regina untangles their hands and puts one on her shoulder briefly.  “I will _not_ let anything happen to either of you.”  
  
“Regina, he’s willing to _kill_ for what he--”  
  
“Perhaps he is, but he won’t harm _you_.  It won’t come to that.  When it comes to those we love, there are risks that neither of us are willing to take,” Regina says, before pausing in front of the gates and looking at the sky briefly, mumbling something under her breath and crossing herself.  
  
“Wait--you’re a _Catholic?_ ” Emma blurts out, before she can help herself.  
  
Regina, the picture of loveliness in this stark, quiet landscape, with her pale skin and her dark eyes, just looks at her with a wry smile.  “Raised.  I’m obviously non-practicing, but we both know that some habits are hard to let go of.”  
  
“God, the amount of crap I don’t know about you--” Emma starts to say, but Regina just holds the gate open for her and motions for her to go through.  
  
“You have time to find out, dear.  I’m not going anywhere.”   
  
…  
  
The mausoleum is one of those places that Emma has known about, but never has had any desire to seek out.  It seems way too invasive; whoever Daniel had been to Regina, he’d been nothing to _her_ , and she’s also never met the man that Henry was named for.    
  
All in all, the place is at best for the Mills _women_ to visit, and in practice is only frequented by Regina.  Fresh flowers stand by the doorway, which suggests that Cora did _drop_ by, but Regina doesn’t stop to look at them; just takes a key out of her pocket and unlocks the door before stepping inside.  
  
Emma’s never felt poorer than looking at side-by-side sarcophagi, in the middle of a narrow room, with rows of shelves holding urns taking up the rest of the space.  Regina, no matter how much she is now a modern woman--a single mother, for a long time, even--is about as blue-blooded as anyone from the United States gets, and it’s enough for Emma to look down at her boots and wonder what the hell she’s doing here.  
  
Until Henry reaches for her hand, anyway, and with a solemn air about him, pulls her forward.  
  
The graves themselves are non-descript, but Latin verse lines plaques attached to the backs of both.  Henry reaches out and traces the one on _Henry Philip Mills II_ ’s tomb, while Regina somewhat tenderly touches Daniel’s, gloved hand curling around the edge of it.  
  
“Is there something we need to do?” Henry asks her, in a poorly executed stage whisper, when there isn’t anything left of the ceiling for her to examine.  
  
Emma tries not to laugh, because it’s a fair question, but Regina also chuckles after a second.  
  
“I normally tell... my father and your father about our lives.  About what we have been doing, for the last year.  About what we want for the next year.”  
  
“Like a birthday wish,” Henry says, looking at her carefully.  “When you blow out the candles on a cake.”  
  
“Sort of like that, yes,” Regina agrees, smiling at him as gently as she ever does.  “It’s a way to--well, I like to think they’re in a better place, now, and this way they know that we remember them.”  
  
Henry falls silent for a few seconds, and then lets his hand fall away from the plaque.  “Except I _don’t_ remember them.”  
  
“Kid, if they could, they’d both _love_ to get to know you,” Emma says, putting a hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You don’t have to say anything, Henry, if you don’t want to,” Regina adds, after a few moments of watching him frown deeper and deeper.  “It’s something I do because it brings me comfort, but just stopping by--it’s more than enough.”  
  
“No, I want to,” Henry says, before stepping closer to the sarcophagi and touching them both tentatively.  “But this is kind of private, so I guess I want to be alone, when I do.”  
  
Emma feels her mouth curve into a smile, but she covers it before Henry can see her and gives him a sober nod.  “Of course.”  
  
“Yes, dear--we’ll be right outside,” Regina says, quite deliberately not looking at Emma and then stepping out of the mausoleum again.  
  
It’s a bleak day, but the sun is starting to shimmer out past a few grey, wooly clouds that are hovering overhead, and Emma rubs her hands together after a few seconds and says, “What do you think he’s saying?”  
  
“ _Dear grandpa, this year I discovered my mother is an evil witch, but I got the white knight to slay her and now we’re fine,_ ” Regina says, in an unerring imitation of her son’s flair for the intense and dramatic.  
  
Emma laughs.  “Hey, I think he’s pretty much over all of that now.  Archie says that he’s barely even mentioned the book lately.”  
  
“Yes.  His new focus appears to be on Ava Zimmer,” Regina says, as if Ava Zimmer is the bodily equivalent of _Mein Kampf._  
  
“He’s growing up,” Emma agrees, wincing when the sun cuts right through the overhead clouds and hits her in the eyes.  She turns to look at Regina a little more and then manages a small smile.  “Remember when he needed one of us to do just about _anything_?”  
  
Regina sort of tuts and then just stares off into the distance, hands buried into her pockets.  She looks like royalty surveying the kingdom, for a few sparse moments, and then lowers her eyes to the ground and says, “I wouldn’t be opposed to doing it all again, if I had _help_ this time.”  
  
“Doing all of what--” Emma starts to say, before actually managing a _thought_ , and then she just sort of sighs out an, “Oh”.  It’s followed by a more emphatic, “ _Oh_ ”, and after a second Regina just sort of laughs.  
  
“I’m taking that as a _no_.”  
  
Emma snags her lip between her teeth and then slowly says, “No--take that as a, I just haven’t actually ever thought about it.  And I’m guessing you’d want _me_ to do the whole... pregnancy thing?”  
  
“Yes, once was quite enough for me,” Regina says, which isn’t exactly a _sales pitch_.  “And, truthfully, dear, I like our lives just fine the way they are--but if you’re interested, I’m not _disinterested_.”  
  
Emma laughs shortly, after a second.  “You’re _such_ a politician.”  
  
“No need to make it sound like a swear word, Deputy,” Regina says, turning when the door behind them opens again and Henry steps out, carefully shutting it behind him.  
  
“All done?” Emma asks.  
  
He nods, his cheeks burning red from the cold almost immediately, and then looks at Regina.  “Do you want to go--”  
  
“I’ve said everything I wanted to this year, dear,” Regina cuts him off, smoothly, before holding out a hand for him to take; which he does, to Emma’s mild surprise.  “Shall we?”  
  
“Yes, we _shall_ ,” he declares.  
  
As they start to walk away from the mausoleum, matching footprints in the snow, Emma finds herself wishing that she had a camera; it’s an image that could be ripped right from that book of fairy tales, those two dark-coated shapes shuffling forward and having a quiet conversation about _whatever_ it might be.  
  
Whatever Gold’s next move is, she’ll find a way to counter it, she knows, before shoving her hands in her pockets and slowly taking off after them.  
  
As far as Henry’s book is concerned, good _always_ wins--and she’s pretty sure that means them, right now.


	25. Chapter 25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: there is a brief allusion to past sexual assault and accompanying violence at the start of this chapter that some readers may find triggering.

The campaign takes a turn for the nasty as soon as they’re back to work.  
  
The Mirror--and Emma can’t even really picture the amount of glee that Sidney must’ve experienced at this particular scoop--runs her mugshots.  The ones from when she was a teenager; the ones that are supposedly sealed off forever, but apparently appear like _magic_ if enough money is thrown at a PI willing to do a little bit of digging in Arizona.  
  
Henry looks at them quietly for a few moments and then says, carefully, “You were really young.”  
  
“Yeah, I was.”  
  
“What did you--”  
  
“ _Henry_ ,” Regina cuts him off, before more gently adding, “If Emma wanted you to know--”  
  
“But it says that she said it was self-defense, what she did, because of--”  
  
Emma doesn’t honestly think she’s ever seen Regina this irate with her kid before, but he gets bodily lifted from the chair by the collar on his shirt and then marched out into the foyer, where with a few hushed words he’s told to just _leave_ it.  
  
The front door shuts almost petulantly when he’s on his way out, and then Regina wanders back into the kitchen, hovering on the opposite side of the kitchen table as Emma slowly flips the paper shut again.  
  
“Gold has no right,” Regina then says, a shaking present in her voice that suggests she’s trying to hold back on an uncontainable amount of anger.  “ _No_ right, and it’s not as if this is even going to _help_ him.  Mugshots aside, anyone who actually reads the article--”  
  
“Just stop,” Emma says, and dips her spoon back into her cereal.  “Yeah, I once brained my foster brother with a skillet.  It almost killed him.  The town’s going to think what anyone would, reading that, and it’s going to hurt your campaign.  Not to mention my authority as the deputy, so--”  
  
“ _Emma_ ,” Regina says, after a few seconds, and Emma glances back up.  
  
“I _really_ don’t want to talk about this, Regina, and I don’t think I have to given that you clearly already _know_ what the gist of the plea bargain was--”  
  
“Yes,” Regina just says, without looking away from her, and after a few seconds Emma just pushes back from the table and heads for the stairs.  
  
“It was a long time ago,” she says, in passing, but before she can get past Regina, a hand grabs her by the arm and pulls her in close.  
  
“If you want _me_ to make a statement on this--”  
  
“No,” Emma sighs, pressing her cheek against Regina’s for a few moments, and feeling some of that sick rigidity that always gets her whenever she thinks about that day, and the way that Jason had bounced off the skillet and into the kitchen cabinet, the way she’d had to wear the same clothes for days while she’d run.  Those clothes had smelled of what he had _done_ to her, but even then, no one, short of her court-assigned attorney, had believed her when she’d said she hadn’t _wanted_ him to do it.  Not with her record.  “No, just--let it go.  It was a juvie record.  I got ten months.  I got out, and I never looked back.”  
  
Regina’s hand strokes her hair for a few seconds, and then she says, “For what it’s worth, I’m so very sorry.”  
  
It’s the first time anyone other than her underpaid, overworked and scruffy-tired representation has said it to her, and she closes her eyes briefly.  
  
“Thanks,” she then says, before untangling and getting ready for what is bound to be a really tiring work day.  
  
…  
  
David says nothing; just pulls her into one of those tight man hugs that she’s gone without for many years, now, and it says a lot for how frayed her nerves are that she struggles against it briefly--but he holds on tight and says, “If there’s anything I can do--”  
  
“Just--have a few drinks with me.  Let me kick your ass at cards,” she says, sighing and pulling away from him again, before straddling one of the chairs by the cabin’s fireplace and reaching for the deck on the mantel.  
  
“Why is Gold doing this?” David asks, slapping the bottle caps off two hoppy ales and handing her one without further comment.  “Why is he coming after you?”  
  
“Because he’s too afraid to come after Regina, and he’s hoping to intimidate her.”  
  
“Is it _working_?” David asks, raising his eyebrows thinly.  
  
Emma smiles after a second and shakes her head.  “No.  If anything, she’s now determined to ruin him.”  
  
David says nothing for a few moments, just examines the cards before dealing them quickly, and then says, “It must be really sad, to have … so little in your life that destroying someone else’s happiness is the only thing that really motivates you.”  
  
“Yeah,” Emma sighs, after a few moments.  Her hand is terrible, and she just drinks a few more sips of the beer, before turning her chair around and slumping into it more fully.  
  
“Three fives,” David calls, rubbing his hand along his face, and then adds, “You’re probably not in the mood to deal with this, but I just thought you should know--”  
  
“What?”  
  
“I thought a lot, over the holidays, and I’m not ready to just--I _understand_ why Mary Margaret doesn’t want to see me, but I’m not ready to give up on her.  On _us_.  The _us_ I think we can be, anyway,” he says, tossing two sevens onto the pile.  “I’m not going to force myself on her, obviously, but--she needs to know that I’m here.  That I still want to be with her.”  
  
“Okay,” Emma says, adding a nine, and then looking at him quietly for a few seconds.  
  
“I could use... an ally,” he says, staring at his cards intently.  “Someone who knows her well.  Even with all the time I’ve spent with her, I sometimes feel like--”  
  
“She’s a mystery?” Emma asks, taking another sip and then smiling at him.  “Yeah, I know what you mean.”  
  
“The other thing is, Emma, if you don’t support me doing this--she’ll never go for it.”  
  
He places a jack on the pile and looks at her with a hint of challenge, and she looks at her hand and sighs before scooping up the whole pile.  “That’s ridiculous, David.  She’s a grown woman--”  
  
“Yeah, who thinks the world of you.  And your opinion.  You’re like a sister to her, and if you don’t think that I’m good enough or her--”  
  
Emma puts her cards down and sighs.  “There isn’t a _good_ enough.  Are you going to actually put her first from now on?”  
  
“Yes,” he says, so plainly that it’s virtually unquestionable.  
  
“Okay.  You have my blessing, or whatever.”  
  
David stays quiet for a few seconds, but there’s this inner joy that just sort of radiates from his pores at the idea that he’s not going to be cock-blocked by Emma, at least, and then he looks up and asks, “What kind of pie do you think Mary Margaret likes best?”  
  
…  
  
“Blueberry,” Mary Margaret says, before looking at her cautiously.  “You’re not--planning on baking for me, are you?”  
  
“No way, I like you too much,” Emma says, before taking a shot of tequila from Ruby, who has been giving her sad little looks all night long, as if the whole _I was in juvie for hitting someone in the head with a frying pan_ is a little less hot than _I punched a nurse for being a meanie about my wife_.  A good call, that one, but Emma’s getting tired of the pity either way.  
  
“I was thinking that--we might do a New Year’s Eve thing at my apartment.  If you think Regina would join us, anyway.  I don’t want you to be away from her--”  Mary Margaret continues, as Ruby settles down next to them again.  
  
Emma slams back her shot and then says, “New Year’s not really her thing.  It requires staying up past eleven, and there’s really only one thing I can think of that’ll get her to do that--”  
  
“ _Yeah_ ,” Ruby drawls, holding out her hand for a high five.  
  
Emma drops her shot glass.  “I didn’t mean _that_.  I meant that I’m pretty sure she stayed up in 04 to watch Florida get counted.”  
  
“Oh,” Ruby says, and Mary Margaret just covers her eyes with her hand for a few seconds.  “Well, invite her anyway.  She might say yes.  It’s a campaign opportunity.”  
  
Emma rolls her eyes a little, but then says, “I’ll do what I can, but the debate’s on the second and she’s not saying anything, but I know she’s worried about it.  Gold’s not playing by the rules; his only platform, really, is to ruin her and her family, at which point all of her fun facts about the local economy and how clean Storybrooke is--”  
  
“I have half a mind to give him a piece of my mind myself,” Mary Margaret says, staring deeply into her Singapore Sling and then gazing off into the distance.  “Did that make any sense at all?  I meant Gold.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re done for the night,” Emma says, even as Ruby laughs.  “And nobody is confronting Gold about anything.  God, you don’t want to get in the middle of this right now.”  
  
“I think you should kick his ass,” Ruby declares, before toasting to the idea with Mary Margaret, who then almost slides off her stool and threatens to pull the table with her as well; all that saves them is Emma’s quick reflexes, and a little luck with the wobbling table.  
  
“Pretty sure that’s plan B,” Emma says, before looking at her watch and sighing softly.  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come down to that, because hitting people isn’t nearly as much fun as it looks.”  
  
…  
  
On the twenty-ninth, the Mirror runs with new announced developments at the outskirts of Storybrooke, where Regina is apparently proposing to build some sort of mall complex, and all residential properties in the area will need to be cleaned out.  
  
Emma stares at the editorial for a few seconds and then looks at her over a diner menu.  “Uh, this is going to screw a lot of people--”  
  
“Not at all; they’ll be rehomed in those far better priced new builds that Hock Brothers are putting up behind the school.  I was planning on tearing down the slums--”  
  
Emma stares at the picture of the perfectly nice semis that the paper ran with, and wonders if Regina is kidding, before deciding that to Regina’s mind, these old brown-bricked properties are like a zit on the face of her perfect little coastal town.  
  
“--expedite it.”  
  
Emma reaches for the salt and pours some more over the salad Regina ordered for her without asking--an unsubtle hint that her two days of eating her feelings are over now, or something--and then twirls her fork between her fingers for a second.  
  
“What?” Regina asks, carefully folding a napkin over her lap.  
  
“You’re just--he hits your _family_ , and you go after his property.  It doesn’t seem like the kind of … well, _nasty_ reprisal that you’re sort of … known for.”  
  
Regina smiles after a few seconds.  “His property will be all he has left by the time I’m done with him, dear.  I might as well go after it, too.”  
  
Emma exhales softly and then says, “For the record, when you say stuff like that, I start to understand why people in this town are so scared of you.”  
  
A dull sheen washes over Regina’s eyes, and then she stares at her own food and shrugs after a few moments.  “You’ll find they’re more frightened of Elias Gold than they’ll ever be of me, dear, and rightfully so.”  
  
“Regina,” Emma says, a little warningly.  
  
Regina looks up at her after a few moments, a piece of avocado speared on her fork, and then somewhat tersely says, “How is your _investigation_ into his business going, Deputy?  Is _that_ coming up with anything that we can use, yet?”  
  
Emma sighs and then rubs at the bridge of her nose.  “No.  It’s not, and--okay.  I get it.  I get it, but that doesn’t mean I have to _like_ it.”  
  
“Believe me, Emma, you’re really and truly not alone there,” Regina says, after a few moments; it’s the most human admission she’s given on the subject, and the crow’s lines by her eyes sharpen right as she says the words.  
  
“Okay.  As long as we’re clear on _that_ much,” Emma says, and gently nudges Regina’s calf with the toe of her boot.  
  
After a few seconds, Regina says, “I’d like to run some of my debate answers by you.  My aim is to sound stentorian but approachable, and the latter is simply not my forte.”  
  
Emma smiles after a second.  “Well, you know what they say.  Knowing is half the battle, Madam Mayor.”  
  
Regina rolls her eyes, but it’s enough for them to put the campaign behind them for the rest of the evening, even before Henry comes rushing in to the diner with another story about how Ava Zimmer is basically the most awesome person to _ever_ exist, and Regina starts stabbing her salad as if it’s done something to harm her.  
  
…  
  
She doesn’t actually like champagne, but she’s pretty damn ready for this year to be _over_ already, which is reason enough for her to buy four bottles of the stuff before she heads over to Mary Margaret’s.  
  
Henry is taking a nap upstairs so that he can be up again when the ball drops--which is totally not something she discussed with Regina, but then Regina is working late; her debate answers were so rigorously perfected that it had felt like a human teleprompter was rattling off a list of facts, and after some gentle nudging from Emma, they’d agreed that she needed to figure out a way to stay more casual.  
  
Casual and Regina is going to take more than a few hours to become a happy union, especially given what the town has been like lately, and so Emma’s on her own for now.  Well, on her own, but with Mary Margaret, who issued an invitation to Kathryn all on her own.  It’s not the worst way to close out the year at all, because it suggests that everything will soon get better.  
  
“So who am I kissing at midnight?” Ruby asks, winking at Sean, who gulps before putting an arm around Ashley and pulling her in closer.  
  
Emma laughs after a few seconds and says, “Don’t look at me, I’m off to city hall if Regina’s not here yet by ten minutes ‘till.  Nobody should be working through fireworks.”  
  
Ruby pouts, in a way that’s utterly unconvincing, and then eyes Kathryn up and down a few times; after a second, Kathryn just leans against the refrigerator, holding a tray of canapes, and says, “ _Why not_.  It’s been an incredibly strange year anyway, so--you’re on, Miss Lucas.”  
  
Emma heads over to Mary Margaret’s side and, after a second, slings an arm around her back and says, “You okay?”  
  
“Yes,” Mary Margaret says, with a determined nod.  “I’m surrounded by people I care about; even some new friends, and... things could be so much worse.”  
  
“Well, keep your fingers crossed.  I have a feeling that next year might be yours,” Emma declares, before turning when a slightly off-kilter pitter-patter of socked feet sounds from the stairs.  
  
“Is it midnight yet?” Henry asks, rubbing at his eyes as he stumbles down the rest of the way.  “Did I miss it?”  
  
“Nah--you didn’t miss anything.  You got here just in time for more Charades,” Ruby says, before reaching over the bar and giving him one of the cups of sparkling apple juice they got just for him.  “Drink up, Sir Henry.”  
  
He giggles and then follows her over to the couches, and Emma pours herself a new glass of champagne and then hands a second one to Mary Margaret.  
  
“What are we drinking to?” Mary Margaret.  
  
“To... sticking around,” Emma says, after a second.  
  
The dopey way in which Mary Margaret smiles at her makes her feel a little dumb for saying it, but even _that_ doesn’t make her mean it less.  
  
…  
  
At around a quarter to midnight, Mary Margaret’s phone buzzes and she looks at it with a slowly contorting expression that Emma doesn’t have any difficulty reading.  
  
“What is it?” she asks anyway, as everyone else stares at the TV and Ruby keeps an eye on the city hall fireworks display; they’ll probably all head outside when the time comes, and Emma figures she can catch the lights from Regina’s office, if Regina doesn’t meet her outside.  
  
“It’s--nothing,” Mary Margaret says, a little muted; she clutches her glass of champagne tightly enough for the stem to creak a little, and after a second Emma leans in closer and says, “Just _give him a chance_.  Nobody’s perfect, Mary Margaret.”  
  
Mary Margaret directs a look at Kathryn, and then sighs softly, closing her eyes and pressing her phone to her chest.  “What if--”  
  
“Yeah, that’s the big question.  But what if you _don’t_?” Emma asks, just a little more forcefully.  
  
It takes Mary Margaret another two full minutes of just staring silently at the television, and then she puts her glass down and says, “It’s very late, and very dark.  I should accompany you to the town hall”, loud enough for everyone to hear, but nobody seems to really mind or notice one way or another.  
  
Emma gets up and presses a kiss to Henry’s head and then says, “We’ll be back in no time, okay, kid?  You stay here and make sure Ruby doesn’t get into any trouble.”  
  
He nods sleepily, still holding his glass of apple juice, and Emma figures he’ll be out like a light before she and Regina come back.  
  
Mary Margaret holds out her coat for her, and she shrugs into it, zipping it up tight and then yanking Mary Margaret’s silly white cap over her eyes a little.  
  
“Remember how he used to make you feel,” she says, when Mary Margaret still looks more terrified than happy about seeing David again for the first time in about a month.  
  
It seems to be the magic phrase, because after a second, Mary Margaret’s eyes soften a little, and then she manages a shaky smile.  “Okay.  I can do that, I think.”  
  
…  
  
It’s not a moment she wants to be a part of at all, but David, turning slightly blue in the face from the cold, is waiting out front of the building with--God love him--two lilies on long stems and what appears to be a bakery box of some kind.  His hands are shaking and white, and his face is drawn tight when he sees them approaching, almost as if he didn’t really expect to get anywhere at all.  
  
“David,” Mary Margaret says, so tremulously that Emma almost cringes at the sound of it.  “What are you--”  
  
“It’s almost the new year,” he says, before she can say anything else, and then sticks out the lilies so fast and hard that they almost poke Mary Margaret in the eye, before she takes them.  “It’s--a time for starting over, and I want to.  I want to, _with you_.  I want to do it right this time.  I want you to know that... there isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t think about you, and _only_ you.  So, if you’ll give me a chance, and we can do this any way you want to at all--slow, or fast, or--”  He swallows, his mouth sounding papery and parched, and then just says, “Please, just give me a chance to start over again.”  
  
Emma doesn’t have to look at Mary Margaret to know that she’s about a second away from tears and just sucks in a deep breath and says, hand at Mary Margaret’s elbow, “I’m just going to--”  
  
“What’s in the box?” Mary Margaret asks, so quietly that David seems to take an involuntary step forward.  
  
“It’s--a blueberry cupcake,” he says, pulling back on the lid and showing it to her.  
  
After a second, Mary Margaret laughs shakily.  “That’s … a terrible cupcake, David.  That looks like it’s both burned and undercooked.”  
  
“It’s my first attempt, but--I’m willing to keep trying.  However long it takes me to get it right,” he says, offering her the box.  
  
Emma lets go of Mary Margaret’s elbow and takes a few tentative steps back, glancing at David briefly and giving him a discrete thumbs up, and then turns on her heels and heads towards city hall.  
  
She’s too far away when Mary Margaret finally says something, but not far away enough to not hear the relieved rush of laughter and, “Yes?” from David that follows whatever it is; and maybe it’s a little bit crazy, but Emma shares his relief _completely_.  
  
…  
  
She knocks on Regina’s door and then sneaks inside, shutting it behind her.  
  
“Time to clock out, Madam Mayor,” she says, which makes Regina look up at her in confusion, glasses perched on the ends of her nose.  “We’re about five minutes away from mandatory kissing--”  
  
Regina smiles after a second, plucking her glasses off and letting them scatter across her desk.  “ _Mandatory_ , hm?”  
  
“Yeah, they say it’s like seven years of bad luck if you don’t make out with your wife when the clock strikes, and I’ve had enough bad luck to last me a lifetime, so--”  
  
Regina says nothing further, just leans back in her chair and makes some sort of ridiculous sexy beckoning motion, and the closer Emma gets to the desk, the more it hits her that she’s had a lot of champagne and there is _no one else_ in the building right now.  
  
When her hand brushes against the desk, it’s almost with a caress, and Regina watches her with a single raised eyebrow.  
  
“ _Ah, memories,_ ” Emma sighs, hopping onto the desk and then pulling Regina’s chair in closer with her legs.  “If I promise to gently put the paperweight on the floor this time, what do you say--”  
  
Something explodes.  
  
Her first thought is, fireworks, but the second explosion follows far too quickly and too close-by for it to be that, and she doesn’t have to think before the third one hits and the desk--  
  
…  
  
When she opens her eyes again, she’s not on the desk anymore; the desk is on her, and it’s only with a lot of effort--and her smoked-out vision blurring over--that she manages to shift it off her.    
  
As she starts to call out Regina’s name, all she can manage is a light cough, so instead she flips to her knees and starts crawling around.  
  
“Emma,” she hears, from somewhere to her right, and she sees the filing cabinet containing council audits from the last three years before she sees her wife, leg pinned underneath it.  
  
It’s clear to her that the city hall is on fire, somehow, but it’s not clear how close that fire is, or how extensive; sirens sound outside, and that’s a _good_ sign, but the smoke filtering into the room is not one.    
  
“I’m here,” she finally rasps out.  “I’m okay.  Can you move?”  
  
“No, I’m--” Regina says, crying out sharply when she tries to pull herself away from the cabinet.  “I’m stuck.  You’re hurt, and the building is on fire--”  
  
“Yeah, no shit,” Emma manages, before reaching for the cabinet.  Christ, it is _so_ heavy, and Regina can only really help her shove at it from one angle--which she stops doing after a few moments, reaching for Emma’s wrist instead.  
  
“ _Leave me_ ,” she says, scratchy but forcefully.  
  
“Are you fucking _crazy?_ ” Emma snaps at her, before finally looking over her shoulder at the door, thick black smoke streaming in from the gap underneath it.  “I’m not _leaving_ you here.”  
  
“Henry--”  
  
“Needs _both of us_.   Jesus, you don’t get to _die_ on me, Regina.  Not today.”  
  
The sound of wood splintering in the hallway and then crashing down, loudly, sending a flurry of sparks underneath the bottom of the door is enough for them to both freeze for a second.  Firefighters are outside, and a hose is being turned onto the building, but that isn’t going to help with the cabinet, and after a second Emma looks around and spots the top of the desk, cleanly cleaved in half.  
  
“I’m going to slide that under, okay, and use it as a lever--” she says, pointing at it.  “You’re going to have to get yourself out from under--”  
  
Regina looks as scared as Emma has ever seen her, but manages a nod, and Emma scrambles for the wooden board, wedging it between the cabinet and Regina’s leg with enough force for Regina to bite through her lip in an effort not to scream.  
  
They have much bigger things to worry about, and after a second, Emma figures that her back is the only thing that’ll cut it, so she squeezes herself under the board and then starts to sit up, head down low to not inhale too much smoke.  
  
For a second, nothing budges--except every single vertebra where it meets her spine, and they contract and release in a way that makes her think that she could actually be _breaking_ her own back here--and then, with another loud gasp of pain, the cabinet lifts maybe half an inch at most.  
  
“ _Go,”_ she grits out, collapsing as soon as Regina has pulled backwards enough for her ankle--mangled and flattened and _really_ not right--is free.  
  
They’re out, but--  
  
“What now?” Regina asks, as Emma shifts backwards and tries not to wince when her entire back screams in pain as she straightens it again.  
  
“Now--”  She closes her eyes.  “The window--we’re going to have to--”  
  
“Letting _air_ into the building may cause an explosion,” Regina says.  “It’s something about vacuums, I don’t know what exactly, but the fire safety code--”  
  
“Okay, okay,” Emma says, looking at her blackened hands and then running her jacket sleeve past her eyes; they’re starting to tear from all the smoke, and she’s starting to feel faint from the blazing heat that’s slowly winding around the office, and then looks at the door again.  “We’ll try our luck with the hallway.  It’s smoky, but not on fire from what I can tell; so I’ll shield you.  You can make it out if I just--”  
  
“Don’t be _ridiculous,_ you can’t shield me from--” Regina snaps back at her, before heaving for breath and reaching for her ankle with a grimace.  
  
“Well, what the hell do you _propose_ we do--”  
  
“I don’t _know_ , Miss Swan, but--”  
  
The door splinters, and of all the people to hear on the other side, it’s Graham.  “Regina, Emma, are you--”  
  
“Oh, thank God,” Emma exhales, before barking out, “We’re here, we’re okay but Regina can’t walk on her own--is there a way out?”  
  
The door swings open, sending in so much dense smog that Emma actually feels it settle on her skin, but then Graham’s voice rings through loud and clear.  “Yeah, there’s a path--can you--”  
  
…  
  
She weakly throws up, as soon as they’re outside, but even then keeps an arm around Regina, who only has one functional foot at the moment and really couldn’t have made it out alone.  
  
David and Mary Margaret are right there, shifting in place to hold them up, and it says a lot for Regina’s state that she tolerates Mary Margaret touching her without even a single protest.  
  
“We heard the--well, something blew up,” David says, holding her hair back as she wipes at her mouth and then tries--not very successfully--to breathe.    
  
An oxygen mask is placed against her mouth a few seconds later, and she powers through a few inhalations before batting it away and pointing at Regina.  “The Mayor’s hurt--deal with her.”  
  
“Ma’am, you inhaled--”  
  
“I’m _fine_ ,” Emma says, coughing again as soon as the words are out, and then scanning the crowd for the one face she expects to see there, right now.  
  
As soon as their eyes lock, she pulls away from David and looks at Graham, who is talking to the fire chief about what possibly caused the city hall to go up like this--and it’s not an explanation she’s interested in.  All she’s interested in, right now, is getting hold of Graham’s _gun_ and delivering a message of her own.  
  
Regina sees where her eyes are going and lowers her mask, weakly managing a, “Emma, _don’t_.”  
  
“Regina, he just tried to--”  
  
“Getting even doesn’t accomplish _anything_ ,” Regina rasps out, before covering her mouth with the mask again and looking at her intently, even as she’s lowered into a wheelchair and her ankle is probed by one of the same EMTs that carried Moe French out of his shop earlier this month.  
  
The amount of powerless rage that swells up in Emma is about fourteen times the size of any little red balloon she could conjure up, and there is _nowhere_ for it to go; if she so much as looks at Gold one more time--  
  
“ _Emma_ ,” Henry’s shrill, panicked little voice sounds from somewhere behind them.  “ _Emma, Mom--_ ”  
  
She closes her eyes for a few seconds and then nods at Regina, before turning to the kid barrelling towards them and wrapping him up in a hug.  
  
“We’re okay, kid.  We’re both okay,” she tells him, and directs one final look at Gold in the crowd, before adding, “It takes more than a fire to knock me and your mom out, okay?”  
  
…  
  
“I’m not canceling the debate,” Regina says, when they’re back home, with instructions to take it _easy_ for a few days.    
  
Emma takes as deep a breath as she can manage and then says, “I know.”  
  
“I’m going to take the one thing he has to cling to, and I’m going to destroy it,” Regina adds, so evenly that Emma feels a shiver run up her spine and then just says, “What is it?”  
  
“ _Hope_ ,” Regina says, before closing her eyes, breath rattling in  her chest.  “I’m going to take away any and all hope he has left.”  
  
It’s the most she’s ever sounded like the Evil Queen of Henry’s book; an embittered shrew of a woman who was out to destroy all the happy endings in the land, except it hardly seems like it can be that simple, now.  A cornered animal is vicious; Emma knows that much better than most.  
  
In the first hours of the new year, without a single firework having gone off in the entirety of Storybrooke, Emma looks at Regina--imperfections and all--and then softly says, “ _Good_.”


	26. Chapter 26

The re-election is all but won, but Regina nonetheless spends an hour getting ready, badly-sprained ankle dressed up in a particularly nice sock while she maneuvers her crutches around the house with the kind of grace that someone who’s walked with them for a decade would probably hope for.  
  
Emma holds the front door open for her and Regina pauses there for just a moment, before looking at her with quiet determination.  
  
“Can’t really look more human than you do right now,” Emma says, after a few seconds, and then leans in and kisses her gently enough for her make-up to not need further touching up.  “I’ll be right there, okay?  Ready to shoot him if he so much as looks at you funny.”  
  
Regina smiles, gentle and poised at once, and then heads the rest of the way down the steps, to where Henry is waiting for him in one of his impeccably pressed little suits, looking anxious and worried and about as loving as he has the entire year.  
  
All it took was them nearly dying, Emma thinks wryly, before pulling the door shut behind her with enough force for the frame to shake.    
  
…  
  
The town hall isn’t usable right now, so instead they’re moving proceedings to the courthouse; the setup doesn’t really lend itself clearly to debating, but after some discussing with a few staffers, Regina decides that Gold is best off in the witness stand and she’ll take the place of the court reporter, which puts them _more_ or less on opposite sides of Sidney, who will manage the debate for them.  
  
There’s something almost amusing about the fact that they both creep in with crutches of sorts, but somehow Regina manages to look imposing regardless of how heavily she’s favoring one foot, and Gold looks as he always does--harmless, until you cross him.  
  
Emma unwillingly feels her fingers stray towards her gun as he ambles by, nodding at her almost pleasantly, and then takes his seat, looking for all the world like the devil who got away with the deed.  
  
The tight, thin line that Regina’s mouth sets in as she sits down is a little worrying, but after a few seconds of staring down--and praying, maybe--she looks back up with a far more relaxed expression.  Within moments, Sidney bangs his adopted gavel on the bench, the town’s quiet murmuring comes to a close.  
  
“Let’s begin,” he booms, pompous and ridiculous as ever.  “Each candidate will commence with an opening statement and will then be asked to comment on a variety of questions.  We asked you to submit these in writing, but unfortunately the box that contained the questions was lost in last night’s fire, which means that we’ll be allowing you to ask questions on the spot.  I reserve the right to veto anything inappropriate, of course.”  
  
He lets the words sink in for a few seconds, and then nods towards Mr. Gold.  
  
“The floor is yours, Mr. Gold.”  
  
Gold smiles, and Emma grips her gun a little tighter.  
  
…  
  
The opening statements are a world apart.    
  
If Emma’s ever thought of Regina as unfeeling, that idea is blown out of the water by the clinical way in which Gold paints a picture of a kind of tyranny that Regina has exerted over the town, focusing on every minute aspect of her two terms of being in charge and tugging at all the town’s grievances like they are nothing more than strings that he’s got wrapped around his fingers.  
  
Regina’s, meanwhile, comes from a place of love, however hard that might be for anyone else to see.  She sounds as tired as she is, which Emma figures can only help her, and after a few prepared statements stops herself and just looks out over the crowd for a few moments.  
  
“Being a Mayor is not unlike being a mother,” she then says, in a way that seems contemplative.  “Some are born to do it, some can mimic the excellent examples they’ve had in their own lives, and then there are women like me, who have no role models in this regard and who struggle every day with the weight of all decisions made that affect their children.  If I _seem_ , as my wife would say, stiffly uncaring in how I execute this job, it is because I do not know _how_ to take it lightly.  Every cent in the town’s budget that I argue over is one that I only hope to allocate in the best possible way, much as every time that I berate my son Henry for leaving his shoes on the stairs, I do so because I don’t want to see him _hurt_.”  
  
She pauses for a few moments, before running frail-looking fingers through her hair, and then says, “For eight years now, I have kept trying.  My personal life has been dragged through the mud repeatedly... every four years or so, if I’m being exact.  My family has been attacked purely on the basis of associations with me.  It would have been enough to deter most people from public office a third time, but this town is _like_ a child to me, and I will not turn my back on it at any cost.  Thank you.”  
  
It earns her a mostly surprised-sounding smattering of applause, and Regina goes back to looking at the notes in front of her for a few seconds, before scooping them all up and then putting them aside.  
  
“ _She’s winging it_ ,” Henry whispers, to her right, and Emma nods after a few seconds, feeling unexpectedly proud for reasons she can’t really articulate.  
  
“Yeah, she is.”  
  
…  
  
Gold somehow manages to answer every audience question with a carefully placed dig at Regina’s various failings, while making himself sound like he’s next in line for sainthood.  It’s so ridiculous that Emma can’t imagine the town falling for it, but even then it’s unnerving to see that he can definitely play the political game if he really needs to.  
  
It means that whatever final card Regina has up her sleeve, she better play it well.  Gold’s not going anywhere unless she makes him go, and when he pointedly reminds the town that Regina isn’t exactly the most _trustworthy_ elected official they’ve ever had--with a smile and a nod directly at Emma--she feels her blood start to simmer all over again.  
  
Regina ignores the slight altogether, instead commenting on her perfect audit record and the fact that she is willing to put any large town renovation projects up for public debate, and it’s the kind of quiet and professional answer that calms the townspeople down again.  When she’s done commenting on her performance in office, she just smiles slightly and says, “I wouldn’t claim to be perfect, and God knows I’ve made some grievous mistakes in my personal life, but the only kind of cheating that _you_ should care about concerns my taxes, and I’ll happily release those records for the last eight years.  As I’m _sure_ Mr. Gold here would as well.”  
  
The vaguest of annoyances washes over Gold’s face, but on they go, to another question about the amount of parks in the town and who is willing to prioritize ensuring that more of the children’s playground equipment is upgraded over the next two years.  
  
Regina crosses her legs, letting her wounded ankle dangle casually, and Emma smiles when Henry whispers, “She’s going to talk about the castle, right?”  
  
“Yeah, she is,” Emma says, and glances at the clock.  Just another thirty minutes left to go.  
  
…  
  
“I think we can all agree that the officials appointed to the Sheriff’s Department by Mayor Mills are a little … lacking, shall we say, when it comes to good morals,” Gold says, a crooked smile playing around his lips.  “I’m not the man to judge marital troubles, as I’m sure you’ve all read, but I do what I can to not take them to work with me.  In addition, our latest _Deputy_ , who happens to also be married to Mayor Mills, obviously has had a skirmish with the law herself, at which point I begin to question the extent to which the town’s safety is _really_ the Mayor’s priority.”  
  
He waits, and then turns to Regina more fully and tilts his head.  
  
“In fact, while we’re on safety--were the city hall’s natural gas safety inspections up to date, dearie?  Because--that _explosion_ last night could have hurt a lot of innocent people--”  
  
It’s the first time he’s visibly gotten to Regina, whose face stills for a few seconds, but then she seems to breathe through it--however much that hurts, right now--and just says, her voice still a little dry, “I think the cause of the explosions hasn’t been determined yet, Mr. Gold, but yes, the gas safety inspections were carried out in October.  In addition, I launched a program to enable citizens to get domestic safety inspections conducted at affordable costs three years ago, and that free carbon monoxide detectors are available from the Planning department.”  She licks her lips briefly, and then says, “As for my … _appointments_ to the Sheriff’s Department, you’ll find that I actually directly appointed neither Sheriff Humbert nor Deputy Swan.  Regardless, I stand by my choices, purely on the grounds that whatever they do in their private lives, or what _happened_ to them when they were minors, has no bearing on whether or not they can carry out their jobs.”  
  
A hand shoots up in the back of the audience and Sidney points at it.  “Go ahead, Tom.”  
  
“Are the three of you in one of those modern relationships?  Because I’m not voting for anyone who doesn’t believe that marriage is between one man and one other person.  Or two women, I guess.”  
  
Regina smiles in a way that looks actively pained and then says, “No, Tom, we’re not in a polyamorous relationship.  I love my wife, and she’s thankfully forgiven me for my indiscretion with Sheriff Humbert, who is no more than a colleague.”  
  
A few more hands shoot up, and Sidney points at a middle-aged woman near the back first, who gets to her legs and says, “What’s to say you won’t do it again?  Once a cheater, always a cheater.”  
  
Emma tries not to react, and Henry’s annoyed little frown next to her helps a lot, as does the way that Regina looks a little exasperated.  
  
“ _Not_ that this has any relevance for my ability to act as Mayor, but my wife and I have fully worked through the problems we were having that led to--my indefensible actions.  There isn’t anyone else I desire to be with.”  
  
“Shirley?”  
  
“So, now that gay marriage is becoming legal in Maine, are you two going to _actually_ get married?”  
  
Regina’s eyebrows shoot up, but after a second she says, “Well, this isn’t much of a proposal, but I’m certainly willing to marry Emma in all the ways that I can, so...”  
  
Gold smiles in a shark-like manner, before interjecting with a soft, “ _Many_ congratulations to you, Mayor Mills, but if we can please go back to the subject of the debate--”  
  
“Steven,” Sidney calls out, and one of the three men who run the car wash gets to his feet and booms, “I’d actually like to hear if Emma’s going to gay marry the Mayor again or not.”  
  
He gets some laughter and after a second Emma clears her throat and says, “Uh--yeah, why not?  It won’t make us more married in my mind but--you know, it’ll be nice, to just have it on paper that we’re completely together and the law agrees--”  
  
Henry elbows her in the side and glares at her.  
  
“And I love Regina.  Obviously.  So, of course I’ll marry her,” she adds, in more of a rush.  
  
“While you’re answering questions, Deputy Swan, are you ever going to pay me?” Michael calls out, from the back of the room.  
  
“Uh--yeah--I’ll write you a check as soon as we’re done here,” she calls back, trying not to cringe.  
  
A few more people chuckle softly, as Gold starts looking more and more annoyed at the direction this is going.  Regina just glances at her with a half-amused look for a few seconds, as if to say, _don’t worry, I won’t hold you to this_.  
  
Like it’s a terrible idea, and not just an _obvious_ one to follow through on.  
  
Sidney clears his throat after a few seconds and then says, “All right.  Our final topic for the day is--family.  What you will do for the town in terms of supporting families in a time where the economy is just _not_ on their side.  Who wants to ask a question?”  
  
Gold folds his hands together in his lap and looks around the room, while Regina just gently twists her wedding ring around and then looks directly at Henry, offering him a small smile.  There are a few lines on her face that suggest she’s starting to hurt again, but she’d insisted on no pain killers until the debate was done, just in case.  
  
It makes Emma feel anxious, but there isn’t a whole lot she can do about it.  
  
Robert from the bakery wants to know what the town is going to do about shortages in day care provision, to which both candidates have perfectly passable answers; he’s followed by Andrew, who runs a set of after-school activities from the rec center on Elm, and who wants to know what kind of budgets cuts will be made to the arts in the years to come.  Gold promises to ring-fence the entire budget, while Regina narrows her eyes briefly and then says that the best she can do is promise that sixty percent will remain untouched, in light of rising gas and electricity costs and social care expenditure.  
  
The next hand that goes up is accompanied by a few soft shocks, and the most unexpected thing happens to Gold’s face, as the person that the hand belongs to slowly gets to her feet.  
  
“I have... a lot of feelings about family,” she says, and the longer Emma looks at her, the more she vaguely starts to resemble a certain proprietor of a certain flower shop.  “You see, there isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for my family, at the end of the day; I’d move the very earth for them.  They’ve lived in Storybrooke for a very long time, now, and they consider this town a home, even if I no longer do.”  
  
“ _Belle_ ,” Gold says, in the most fragile, otherworldly tone of voice.  
  
The woman ignores him, and adds, “I want to believe that Storybrooke will be run by someone to whom family comes first.  Someone who is willing to--make sacrifices, for the sake of family.  Someone who can grow _into_ the kind of person that family needs.  But most of all, I want to believe that whoever we elect next month is someone who knows how to _love_ their family.  So what is love, to you?”  
  
She sits back down again, not before she can hide how much she is shaking, and Emma doesn’t realize she’s holding her breath until Henry forcibly exhales next to her and says, “Is that--”  
  
“Yeah, kid.  You can go--I think you can probably go say hi later,” she says, looking back at Regina, who looks utterly unfazed by this interjection.  
  
Gold, on the other hand--  
  
“Mr. Gold--can you answer the question, please?” Sidney prompts, almost gently.  
  
It still takes Gold a few seconds to snap out of his dazed, forlorn expression, and then he grips the handle on his cane tightly, before saying, “Love is never giving up.  When you truly love something, you will follow it wherever it goes; you will _never_ let it out of your grasp, because it is the only thing that matters.  There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do, to... to _keep_ those I love near me.  Every investment I’ve ever made, every deal I’ve ever brokered--all of it has been so that I could keep my family _safe_.”  
  
It comes out so forcefully, with such barely contained grief behind the words, that Emma looks at Regina and wonders what she can possibly do to make his answer somehow _not_ suffice.  When it’s clear that Gold has nothing else to say, however, Sidney gently says, “Madam Mayor--”  
  
“I used to have similar ideas,” Regina says, after a few seconds.  “I used to think that to love something meant keeping it close, no matter what the cost.  That love had to be fought for and won.  But--”  She hesitates, just for a few seconds, and then says, “I can’t make my family love me.  The most I can do is love them, _listen_ to what they need from me and deliver that to the best of my ability, and... if I’m fortunate, they will love me in kind.”  
  
“And if you had to choose between them and the position you hold?” Belle asks.  
  
Regina laughs, after a second, and then sighs deeply.  “Storybrooke can find another Mayor, dear, but I have no intention of ever finding another family.”  
  
“Thank you,” Belle says, quietly, from the back of the room, and Sidney bangs the gavel down again, before getting to his feet.  
  
“That’s all we have time for today, so if you’ll all please file out--”  
  
Gold is out of the witness stand faster than Emma has ever seen him move, and the haggard way in which he calls out Belle’s name is almost enough to make her _regret_ what this is going to come down to, but then she looks at Regina, who closes her eyes and frowns deeply, and realizes that this part of the story isn’t one that she needs to witness.  
  
“C’mon. Let’s go help your mom up,” she says to Henry, who watches Gold make his way down the aisle, to where Belle waits for him, in a simple checkered blue dress with a very simple message to deliver.  
  
“How’d she do?” he then asks, as Regina dry-swallows a few painkillers and then slowly lifts to her feet.  
  
“What do you think?” Emma asks, looking at the kid as he bites his lip and studies his mother.  
  
“I don’t know,” he then says, and glances over his shoulder again, mouth twisting briefly at whatever he’s witnessing between Belle and Gold.  “But I think she’s a better Mayor than Mr. Gold will be.”  
  
“Yeah?”  
  
“Yeah.  He doesn’t seem to think that we need to rebuild the castle,” Henry says, after a few seconds, and then steps forward to hand Regina one of the crutches.  
  
Emma smiles, before shaking her head, and then offers Regina a hand.  “Let’s go home.”  
  
…  
  
The doorbell rings a few hours later, and Emma tries not to look too surprised when a bundled-up Belle French is there, a taxi idling on the street behind her.  
  
“Oh, hey--”  
  
“Emma, right?” Belle checks, before glancing down at the ground briefly and smiling.  “I’m--I used to babysit for Henry, when he was younger--”  
  
“No, I know--” Emma says, before awkwardly pulling the door open further.  “Regina’s stretched out on the couch--we had an … accident two nights ago--”  
  
“I know,” Belle says, her face falling.  It only takes a second for her to take a deep breath, and then she shakes her head.  “I know...  Regina should have called sooner.  I would’ve come back long before now if I knew that--”  
  
“Hey, it _really_ isn’t your fault or your responsibility that, uh, your ex-boyfriend is--”  Emma starts to say, closing the door behind Belle and then pointing at the living room.  “I mean, I’ve dated a few monsters myself, and there’s nothing you can do about their behavior.”  
  
Belle manages a slight smile.  “Not always, but--I hope I got through to him, today.  I hope he--well.  I hope he finally understands, and that it will allow him to make the changes he needs to make in his life.”  
  
“And if he does?” Emma asks, carefully, as Regina cranes her neck up and says, “Hello, dear--thank you for stopping by before you left again.”  
  
“All I know is that... I have family to take care of,” Belle says, before brightening at the sight of Henry, who is somewhat hesitantly moving towards her.  “Gosh, look at how big you’ve become; but you look exactly like I remember you--well, less like a baby, but your face--”  
  
Henry grimaces as his cheeks get pinched, but then laughs a little and says, “I, um, I was really small then, but there are pictures of you in my photo album upstairs so I guess I kind of remember you.”  
  
Belle smiles and says, “That’s wonderful, Henry.  I’m glad I’ve left a positive impression.”  
  
There doesn’t seem to be anything else for Henry to say, and so after a second Belle turns to Regina and pulls an envelope out of her pocket.  “Here; I know you said--”  
  
“Absolutely not, Belle.  Any favor you might have owed me has been repaid in full,” Regina says, with that commandeering expression that cowes most people in town, Belle included.  
  
The envelope disappears again, and then Belle glances around the living room and smiles at the Christmas tree, not yet dismantled what with everything else that’s gone on.  “It looks better in here.”  
  
“Yes, it does,” Regina says, with the smallest of glances at Emma.  “It really does.”  
  
…  
  
Henry’s browsing through the book when she stops by his bedroom an hour after Belle leaves again, and there’s something about the look on his face that has her stepping in closer a little cautiously.  
  
“What’s up?” she asks, when she sits down next to him on the bed, and he flips back and forth through the last pages.  
  
“There’s no ending,” he says, after a few moments.  He goes all the way to the end of the book, where there’s a page that says, _Happily Ever After_ , but the last panel before it depicts the baby that he used to think of as Emma as being put in the tree.  “She’s supposed to go and break the spell, but we don’t find out if she ever does.”  
  
“What do you think happened?” she asks him, when he goes back to the previous page--the one where Prince Charming bleeds out after the Evil Queen’s knights stab him--and sighs forlornly at that one as well.  
  
“I don’t know,” he admits, and flipping back to the final page and rubbing at the binding there.  “I think there are a few pages missing, about how she grows up and stuff, and then comes to the cursed town and breaks the spell.”  
  
“Okay, so that’s not an ending?”  
  
“It’s not a _good_ one.”  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Well--” he starts to say, before stopping, and then he opens the book to the middle.  “I guess that Snow White and Prince Charming end up back together, just like Ella and Prince Thomas, and um, Princess Abigail and her knight, and Gepetto is back with Pinocchio and he’s a real boy, but...”    
  
“But what?”  
  
“What about the _savior_?” he asks, looking at her with such concern that she feels an almost unbearable need to hug him.  “It doesn’t say what her happy ending is, just that she breaks the curse.  So what happens after that?”  
  
She smiles, unwillingly, and ruffles his hair after a few second.  “Seriously.  What do you think happens to her?”  
  
His frustration is palpable when looks back at the book, and then he says, “I don’t know, okay.”  
  
“Well, if you ask me, she probably--got the Evil Queen to not be so evil, and then they had a kid together and he’s the most awesome kid _ever_ \--”  
  
Henry rolls his eyes at her, a perfect imitation of his mother, and then says, “That’s not a _story_ , that’s our lives, and it doesn’t work because--um--you never broke a curse.  So you’re probably not the savior.”  
  
“Oh, okay,” Emma says, before looking back at the book.  “Well, if she’s not me, maybe she just does what all heroes do.”  
  
“Die?”    
  
Emma laughs briefly and looks back at the picture of the baby in the tree.  “Yeah, sure.  She dies a really noble death.”  
  
“Like … she gets eaten by a dragon to save a baby,” Henry says, looking at the _happily ever after_.  “And then the dragon eats the Evil Queen, and everyone _else_ lives happily ever after.”  
  
“Sounds pretty good to me,” Emma says, after a few seconds.  “Think you’re going to be able to sleep now that you’re thinking about dragons eating babies?”  
  
“ _Duh_ , Emma... I mean, Ma,” he says, before handing her the book and shuffling under the covers a little more and yawning wide, before drowsily adding, “Dragons are awesome.  Ava says that they used to exist but they don’t anymore, but you can find an egg and make one, like a chicken.”  
  
“Mmhm,” Emma says, closing the book and tucking it under her arm.  “Pro tip, kid: maybe don’t tell your mom that you’re planning on making a dragon with Ava.”  
  
“Okay,” Henry says, already muffled and half asleep.  
  
After a few moments of watching his eyelids flutter, Emma clicks off the lava lamp by his bed and walks the book over this bookcase, before shoving it in the bottom-most corner, cleanly hidden behind a huge fold-out book full of historical maps and legendary battles that he got for Christmas.  
  
She’s pretty sure he won’t go looking for it again.  
  
...  
  
It feels almost too easy, when Gold calls the house at ten minutes past ten and flatly announces to her that he’s withdrawing his candidacy, in light of changed personal circumstances.  
  
It’s hard to explain why Emma feels like saying she’s _sorry_ to the man, but Regina managed to KO him in the only place where it could still hurt.  Hope was the one thing that he had left to keep him going, and all the property and trinkets and petty blackmail in the world won’t do anything to fill the void of having lost not one, but two families, over the course of a single, empty life.  
  
The end of the roughest four week period she’s lived through in a long while may feel anticlimactic, but she’s not barely eighteen anymore and her reserves are completely depleted; much more of this, and she’s not sure how she would’ve coped.    
  
When she hangs up, she dismantles her gun for the first time in weeks and drops it into Regina’s office safe, and then heads up the stairs and sits down on the edge of the bathtub, where Regina is listening to some sort of cello piece and gently wiggling her foot in the water.  
  
“I think you just got re-elected,” she says, reaching for Regina’s knee under an extravagant amount of bubbles and squeezing it gently.  “Unless the town decides they’d rather elect the Hungry Hun’s mascot, or whoever they wrote in last time--”  
  
Regina’s laughter is mostly silent, but then she just sighs and says, “It has felt better.  Winning, I mean.”  
  
“Yeah, I can imagine,” Emma murmurs.  “But at least it’s over now, right?  We can go back to living our repetitive, boring small-town lives.”  
  
Regina looks at her solemnly for a few moments, seemingly studying every individual part of her face, and then says, “Life with you is many things, dear, but I’d never call it _boring_.”  
  
Emma starts to protest that, because it _sounds_ like a slight of some kind, but then just gently flicks some water at Regina’s face and smiles at the instantly disgruntled look that passes over Regina’s face.  “You know what?  Right back at you.”  
  
Regina scrunches up her nose in distaste, and then exhales softly and says, “By the way--if you were hoping that I’d just not _notice_ that Miss Blanchard and David Nolan were outside of the city hall _together_ after our near-death experience--”  
  
Emma laughs despite herself.  “At best I was just hoping I wouldn’t have to _talk_ to you about it.”  
  
That earns her a terse little _hmm_ , and then Regina just says, “Why don’t you join me, and we’ll see if we can find _any_ music in this world that we can both tolerate?”  
  
“Hey, I’m tolerating,” Emma protests, before whipping off her shirt and sliding off her jeans, glancing at her heavily bruised skin and then just testing the temperature of the water with her fingertips.  “I haven’t said a _thing_ about this--plucky funeral procession march that you’re currently _unwinding_ to.”  
  
Regina snorts softly, but taps a wet finger against her chin and slowly asks, “What _is_ experimental post-punk, anyway?  Other than an undeservingly articulate way of describing senseless anarchist noise.”  
  
Emma scoffs, but then lowers herself into the tub with a small grunt and holds up her hands in surrender.  “Okay, you know what?  We have another fifty or so years to find common ground.  I hear that Rome wasn’t built in a day, and neither was our relationship.”  
  
Regina just stares at her, before slowly rolling her eyes.  “That’s _very_ deep.  I can barely make out the bottom of the _puddle_ from which you source your wit.”  
  
“I try,” Emma says, before sighing and staring at the iPod.  “Here, let’s try compromise: I like the piano stuff better than this.  Violins make my ears ache.  All string instruments do, actually.”  
  
“Actually, dear, the piano is _also_ a string instrument--”  
  
Emma groans.  “Oh my _God_ , Regina...”  
  
As the music switches, Regina just smirks like a self-satisfied cat. “I’m sure you’ll grow to love the classics.  Repeat exposure fixes an utter lack of culture in most people, it seems.”  
  
That’s just about the opposite of compromise, but already the concerto is starting to make her feel a really pleasant kind of sleepy; perhaps Regina’s right, and there are redeeming qualities to be found _anywhere_ if she just sticks around long enough to look for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story started purely as an exercise in trying to decipher Emma and Regina's voices (without the added pressure of dealing with the show's more absurd/fantastical elements), but quickly gained shape as being an opportunity to comment on S1 of OUAT without actually writing _about_ S1 of OUAT. 
> 
> I would have never started, let alone finished, anything of this size if not for the ceaseless encouragement from:
> 
> \- my partner, for alerting me to the potential of this show as something for me to dabble in with writing, and for pushing me to continue the story when I showed her a tentative draft of the first chapter;  
> \- my proofreading "pack" - four (and sometimes six) of the most helpful, encouraging and appropriately critical and picky people I've ever known and had as friends, who made writing a story this length less of a chore and more of a fun adventure into a shared subconscious;  
> \- and, last but not least, all of you who left comments throughout. I read every last one of them, enjoyed all of your reactions and predictions for where the story would go next (right or wrong), and want you to know that at the various points where I felt a little blocked on a given planned development, it was usually your feedback on the last posted part that gave me the boost I needed to find a work-around.
> 
> I hope the ending satisfied. Thank you very much for reading.


End file.
